


Flux

by MusicalLuna



Series: Superdads [3]
Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (of Amazing Spider-Man), (of Avengers), Alternate Universe, Angst, Avengers Family, Body Horror, Curtain Fic, Domestic Avengers, Domesticity, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emperiled Teenager, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, F/M, Flux-Verse, Gay Parents, Hurt/Comfort, Lack of Communication, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Multi, Parent Tony Stark, Parent-Child Relationship, Parenthood, Science Experiments, Science Inaccuracies, Sickfic, Superfamily, Superhusbands, Universe Alteration, Whump, angsty-shmoop, but with a lot of drama, dads, hand wavy science and medicine, origins story, peter is steve and tony's son, teenaged stupidity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 16:22:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 103,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1394263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MusicalLuna/pseuds/MusicalLuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifteen-year-old Peter has grown up amongst Earth's Mightiest Heroes--in fact, his dads are their leaders. Unfortunately, that means he's never quite sure they're coming home and after years of watching them on the front lines, he wants to do more than just sit at home and pray.</p><p>Steve and Tony are thrilled that their son wants to follow in their footsteps, but they've dedicated their every waking breath to making sure that he doesn't have to and that he grows up normal. Or as normal is as possible, considering his lineage.</p><p>But when Peter elicits the help of a scientist trying to create the next super soldier serum, he'll learn that actions, no matter how noble their intentions, have consequences. And not only for himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jennberry84 (tunes84)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunes84/gifts).



> WOW.
> 
> *looks around*
> 
> THIS IS REALLY HAPPENING.
> 
> I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's just i've been working on this fic for two years now and it is BLOWING MY MIND THAT I HAVE FINALLY REACHED THE POINT OF POSTING.
> 
> This started out as a simple request from [jennberry1984](http://tmblr.co/m-SL9gTF4d9I41W0g_Z2LpA) for a sickfic. What SHOULD have been a one-shot somehow got glued to my interest in exploring how Peter could become Spider-Man in this verse and here we are, 88,000 words later. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BELOVED. <3
> 
> I am so so grateful to my beloved [windscryer](http://samurljackson.tumblr.com/) without whom this fic would have died. Thank you to my netbook's godmother for being, as always, my best and greatest resource for revisions, and to Jade, Marilyn, Yuki, and Donna for their betaing help.
> 
> I'm going to do my best to provide warnings for each chapter's content in the end notes. So if you need warnings, please be sure to check the end notes, or send me a message if you're not sure it will be accounted for.
> 
> Now I'm going to shut up and let you read. I hope you enjoy.

 

It's just after noon when Peter's phone chirrups in his backpack and his heart starts thumping hard in his chest. Nobody else in the group of students headed toward OsCorp's doors hears it, thanks to his dad's specially-designed volume controls. Peter does—thank you, mildly enhanced hearing inherited from other dad.

His dads are _the_ Iron Man and Captain America.

It's a gene pool that comes with a lot of perks.

Perks aren't the only things it comes with though; most fifteen-year-olds' biggest problems involve passing trig or if so-and-so will ask them to Sadie's. Peter worries about all that stuff, and he gets the privilege of wondering if this will be the time Fury calls to say he's lost his dads, or one of his uncles, or his aunt. There have been some close calls in the past and whenever they're called to assemble. Peter gets twitchy and a little over-sensitive to his phone's alerts. He's gotten in trouble for it because _technically_ students aren't allowed to have cellphones, but his dads get it: thus, special volume controls.

“Peter, what are you doing?” Gwen hisses when he stops walking to swing his bag around so he can dig for the phone. “Ms. Marsh is going to throw a fit if you get separated!”

Gwen's...well, Peter's pretty sure Gwen is his girlfriend. He hasn't actually _asked_ her yet because he gets tongue-tied just thinking about it and since he's too pathetic to ask her, he hasn't kissed her either, but he thinks he's getting there. If he's reading her right, which he probably is.

Maybe.

Like...79% probability?

 _Anyway,_ Gwen's also brilliant, so she puts together the answer to her question before he can.

“Your dads?”

“Probably,” Peter mutters, distracted. Where the heck is his phone? His stomach is crawling around in fits because he'd woken up this morning and gone into the kitchen to find just one dad. And not the one who normally makes him breakfast.

“Morning, Bambi,” Tony'd said and handed him a plate with two Pop-Tarts and a pile of scrambled eggs. “Dad got a call around five this morning. Off to Cleveland!” he said, mouth twisted into a completely unconvincing grin.

“Without you?” Peter said, sinking down at the table. He hated it when his dads went off to fight without each other, even when they were with his aunt or uncles. Steve was made pretty tough, but he wasn't invincible. He tended to put himself in riskier situations when they weren't together. Too selfless for his own good. “And he says _I'm_ the one engaging in high-risk behavior,” Tony was always complaining. “Ha! My personal motto isn't ' _lay down on the fucking wire_ '.”

Peter liked it better when they were together.

Dad shrugged and took a swig of his coffee, the fingers of his free hand grazing over the buttons on his suit jacket, right over the arc reactor. “Yep. Day job, shorty. Don't worry, Dad's a big boy and he's got Clint and Bruce along for the ride.”

Peter knew his dad well enough to know he wasn't taking being left behind as well as he was pretending, but he also knew fake-it-till-you-make-it was pretty much Dad's _modus operandi_ for coping. “Enjoy that nickname while you can, Dad,” he'd said. “Pretty soon I'll be calling you shorty.”

Dad had thrown a dish towel at him, but some of the brooding darkness in his eyes had faded, so Peter counted it as a win.

One of Peter's classmates bumps into him and he grunts, breaking out of his thoughts. “Do you mind?” Peter says and is summarily ignored—as usual. He glares at the girl's retreating head, until his fingers find the phone at last.

“Come on,” Gwen says, pulling him forward. “We have to keep up. And keep that thing down so Ms. Marsh doesn't see it.”

“That's what I have you for,” Peter says, smirking at her as he pulls the phone out and she shoots him a humorless smile, but keeps guiding him forward by the elbow, craning her neck to keep an eye out for the chaperones over the heads of their classmates.

Peter's phone lights up under his touch. It's a specially-made Stark device—fingerprint protected. His heart immediately starts pumping faster when he sees he's got four text messages. He reminds himself that if it were serious, they would have called, not texted, and taps open the first message.

**Uncle Clint 12:06  
February 6, 2031**

_hey pete – went fine but no sparring tonight sorry._   
_think i messed up my bow arm. nothin to worry_   
_about tho._

**Uncle Clint 12:06  
February 6, 2031**

_sorry forgot to say – your dad is OK. got hit but hes  
alright _

**Aunt Nat 12:06  
February 6, 2031**

_Everyone made it back. Your dad was wounded, but_   
_he's going to be fine. Tony knows. Bruce will text_   
_with details. Your uncle the moron bruised his arm,_   
_but he's just being a baby._

“Peter?” Gwen says and he swallows, his heart making it difficult since it's throbbing at the base of his throat. He realizes he's stopped walking and Gwen's staring anxiously up into his face.

“Uh,” he says and glances down at the phone, at his white-knuckled fingers. “I,” he says and his voice catches. “My dad— He— I mean he's not— He's just—”

Gwen's grip on his arm turns painful and she grabs the phone, her eyes darting back and forth as she reads the message—he'd added her prints just a few days ago. Tony had complained for an hour, but Gwen _gets_ it, what the waiting and not knowing is like and she's— “Oh my god, Peter!” she cries when she's finished and releases his arm just to punch it. “You scared the hell out of me!”

“ _Ow_ ,” Peter says.

“Jeez,” she continues, following up with a dirty look, “I know if it's Steve that's hurt that's a big deal, but I thought— _god._ ”

“I really wish you wouldn't call him Steve,” Peter says, wrinkling his nose.

“That's his name, Peter,” Gwen says, like he doesn't know that, like it makes it less weird that she's on a first name basis with his _dad,_ and she pulls the phone closer to her face. “This one's from Bruce.”

Peter edges closer to her, reading over her shoulder.

**Uncle Bruce 12:07  
February 6, 2031**

_First of all, your dad is fine, Peter. He was injured,_   
_but he should be fully recovered by the end of next_   
_week. The wound looks worse than it is. He's getting_   
_stitches right now. There's nothing to worry about._

“Oh, stitches,” Gwen says, “that's not so bad.”

Peter agrees, but he'll still feel better when he can see for himself. Then he remembers he has one more text.

**dad 12:07  
February 6, 2031**

_dad's back. he's banged up. send you a pic when I  
get there._

That makes Peter smile; that's exactly what he wants and his dad knows it.

“Okay, come on,” Gwen says, tugging on his arm, “we need to get moving. We are lagging so bad. You know how crazy Marsh gets when you don't stay with the group.”

After today, he won't have to worry about Marsh going apoplectic or being left behind and having to wait for news. After today, everything's going to be different.

The two of them run to catch up with the rest of the class, hand in hand.

~

 

Tony has exactly one hour—a gift from Pepper—before he has to be back at work for the remainder of his day of incredibly boring meetings. Pepper, who had told him in no uncertain terms: “ _I gave Happy orders to_ carry _you back to the car if necessary. Natasha texted me, so you're not getting out of this with your oh-but-my-poor-husband-I'm-so-distraught-he's-so-badly-injured shtick_.”

“He could be emotionally compromised,” Tony pointed out.

Pepper had just given him a Look and said, “ _One. Hour._ ”

So here he is in S.H.I.E.L.D. gloomy-as-hell HQ trying to get eyes on his husband. It's not like he doesn't trust Bruce and Clint's assessments of Steve's injuries; they're the best of all of them at all of that field-medic crap, but after nineteen years of this he knows the quickest way to get rid of the knotted ball of anxiety behind the arc reactor is to see for himself.

He blows right past the guard standing at the door to the MedBay and a few strands of the knot immediately start to unspool when his gaze finds Bruce's broad purple-shirt-wearing shoulders. He's standing with his back to the door, but he turns at the sound of Tony's entrance. His mouth puckers in an amused little smile. “About time. Pepper said you only have until one.”

Tony huffs, part faux-exasperated and part real-exasperated. “Oh my god, she texted you, too? I am capable of following instructions.”

“That's news to me,” comes Clint's voice and Tony gives Bruce a quick once-over before looking to the beds. His eyes slide over Clint, who has his entire right arm swaddled in bags of ice, Natasha, who's sitting at the foot of his bed poking at his leg, and over to the bed at the right where Steve's lying on his back, head obscured by the bowed back of the doctor leaning over him. His red-booted feet are sticking off the end.

“Because you always do what you're told, Barton,” Tony mutters, and starts a little when a hand touches his arm.

“He's fine,” Bruce says, voice gentle, and Tony wrinkles his nose.

“Well, _obviously._ ”

“It's just a flesh wound,” Bruce goes on. Tony doesn't like the sound of that, because that's Bruce-speak for _don't freak out, even though it looks bad._

He sidles around the bed, opposite the doctor, and, “ _Jesus,_ Steve, what the hell happened?” slips out of his mouth before he can stop it. He reaches blindly for Steve's hand, fingers clamping tight around it as his heart gives several stuttering, clenchy beats. It looks like someone doused Steve with blood, except for the area right around the still-bleeding gash that crosses his _entire forehead,_ holy hell. The doctor's carefully dabbing away fresh blood as it wells up, sewing the skin back together with tiny, neat stitches.

Steve doesn't open his eyes, but he squeezes Tony's fingers and says with, frankly, way too much cheek, “Went on what's called a 'mission'. Tried to stop some bad guys who didn't want to be stopped.”

The doctor almost manages to disguise his laugh as a cough.

Tony points a narrow-eyed glare at the side of his head. “I told Pete I'd send him a picture,” he says instead of acknowledging his asshole husband's snark and pulls out his phone, starts trying to find a good angle.

Steve's eyes pop open and the doctor makes a chiding noise when his head makes an abortive turn toward Tony. “Tony, no, are you nuts?” he says. “It'll ruin his whole day if he sees me like this.”

Tony flicks his eyes up, mouth flat. “I thought you were fine.”

“Okay, am I going to need to ask you to leave?” the doctor asks when Steve turns his head again and gives Tony a hard look.

“I _am_ fine, but I'm covered in blood. That's not going to reassure him, which is what I assume you're trying to do.”

The most recent stitch slips loose a little and the gash widens, giving Tony a glimpse of pale bone he really could have done without. He swallows with some difficulty and tugs his hand free of Steve's, pushing him back into place. “Stop _moving,_ I can see your _skull.”_

“You should have seen him earlier,” Clint says and Steve's next glare goes in his direction. Probably because he knows Tony's imagining that now, with technicolor, slo-mo, the works. It's making him a smidge nauseous.

“Clint,” Steve says sharply, the way he does when he's telling them off in the field.

“What,” Clint says and shrugs, winces. “I'm saying it looks better. I thought he'd taken off your fa—ow, shit, Nat, what the hell.” Natasha doesn't even bother looking up at him, her face serene and unreadable.

Steve sighs and lets the doctor take his jaw and manipulate him back into place. “At least wait until the stitches are finished, Tony.”

“Yeah, fine, fine, whatever,” Tony mutters and worries his thumb over the hem at Steve's wrist. He glances up at Bruce, grasping for something to distract him. “Big Guy see any action?”

Bruce smiles ruefully. “Not this time.”

“Been awhile,” Tony says and rubs at his nose. “Do we need to go find a quarry or something where he can work off some excess energy? We can give Thor a call.”

“He's not a hyperactive five-year-old, Tony,” Bruce says, wry. “You don't need to set up regular playdates for him.”

Tony's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “Yeah, that's why he and Clint sit and color while we wait for you to change back.”

Bruce huffs. “Hulk has never colored with anything other than people's blood, Tony.”

“Holy shit, do you think they make markers big enough?” Clint asks eagerly. “They make those giant pencils—we could get some poster-sized prints— He loves tic-tac-toe as long as I don't win too much.”

“Oh my god,” Bruce says, covering his face with one hand. “Now look what you've done.”

“Might be a good idea,” Steve says thoughtfully. “Drawing always helps me feel calm.”

“ _Fingerpaints!”_ Clint just about yells.

Bruce groans and Tony grins at him.

“All right,” the doctor announces, sounding relieved. He sits back and starts tugging off his gloves. “You're all set, Captain.”

“Sit up slowly,” Tony orders when Steve starts shifting to his elbows. “You may be durable, but your blood fills the same amount of space as the rest of us. And since you're wearing half of it—so 2002, by the way—”

“Here,” Bruce says, cutting Tony off with a look. “Let me give you a hand.” He eases Steve upright, clasping one of his hands to his chest, the other on Steve's shoulder. “Okay?” Bruce asks, trying to peer at Steve's face, despite the way Steve's bent forward. It makes Tony's heart do weird things, like it's samba-ing in his chest.

“Lightheaded,” Steve says to his knees. “Can't feel my forehead at all, but the rest smarts.”

“What did I tell you,” Tony complains. Bruce shoots him a quelling look.

“I'm not surprised,” Clint says. “Don't know how you got off without a concussion.”

Steve smiles, nodding at Bruce cautiously as he brings his head up. “A small blessing.”

A very small, squishy part of Tony that he hasn't managed to stamp out goes a little softer at that. Tony may not believe in God, but he admires Steve's quiet faith, appreciates like hell the comfort his husband gets from it. “You hang out with a Norse god on a regular basis,” Tony's said in the past. “You've been to his palace in another dimension. Met his relatives. How can you still think there's one God?”

Steve had just looked back at him with steady eyes and a firm jaw and said, “It's different. And it's called faith for a reason.”

Anyone else and Tony would dismiss them as a self-deluded idiot, willfully ignorant. But there's something about Steve, maybe his inherent wholesomeness, maybe the fact that he's not afraid to talk about his God, but never asks anyone to _come to Jesus,_ or maybe it's just that Tony's head over heels for the guy, has been for years.

Either way, he's not about to try and take it away from him.

“Pepper's going to kill you,” Natasha says then, inspecting her fingernails.

Tony blinks. “What? Why?”

Natasha looks up, a smile cutting across her lips. “It's one.”

“ _What?”_ Tony says, looking down at his watch even though he's sure she's right. “Oh, hell.” He glances toward the door because when Pepper said she'd send Happy after him she was almost, probably, definitely _not bluffing_. “Steve—”

“At least let me clean up a little, Tony,” he says, chiding Tony for _patience_ with his tone and his expression and somehow managing to look the picture of it himself.

“Well, get to it!” Tony says, snapping his fingers. “Pep's going to have my head!”

Bruce hands over an antiseptic wipe, trying to smother a smile and doing a piss-poor job of it.

The only thing Steve's really managed to do by the time the MedBay door opens is smear the blood around a little. Happy pokes his head in and Tony immediately flings both hands up, index fingers out. “I swear to god, if you try to pick me up I will punch you in the throat, so help me.”

Happy looks completely unimpressed, the son of a bitch. “I gave you an extra fifteen minutes, sir. You were supposed to be back at one sharp. Come on.”

“Just let me get this photo for my kid!” Tony whines and Happy sighs, but waves his hand in a _well, go on then_ motion.

“Say cheese, Frankie,” Tony says and Steve drops his hands, giving up on the clean up, tries a smile. He looks ridiculously young and exhausted and Tony can tell there's _something_ weighing him down, but it's going to have to wait for later.

“All right,” Happy says as soon as the phone makes the simulated shutter noise, and takes Tony by the elbow. “Let's go, Mr. Stark, before Miss Potts has both our asses.”

Tony lets Happy drag him toward the door, yelling as they go through, “ _You owe me a kiss, asshole!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter warnings:** Mention of bullying, graphic description of an injury.
> 
> Look for updates weekly on Tuesday night!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An amaaaaaazing Illustration I commissioned from internhamish can be found [here](http://internhamish.tumblr.com/post/53246559558/commission-for-musicalluna-bloody-battered). Warning for graphic injuries.

OsCorp is amazing. It's not that Peter doesn't appreciate how far ahead of everyone Stark Industries is, it's just—OsCorp focuses on biology. What his dad likes to call not-very-nicely “soft science”; but Peter's always been fascinated by it and OsCorp is one of the leading companies in bio-mechanical engineering and genetic experimentation in the world. Which is why he _was_ interning here, until he told his dads about how great his first week was going and how awesome the scientist he worked for was and Tony _flipped out._

He'd thrown a huge fit and had actually forbidden Peter from going back. Forbidden him! With no explanation and no reason—it still gets Peter's heart rate up just thinking about it. It's one thing when his dad bad mouths them because he bad mouths just about everybody, but actually refusing to let Peter take such a huge opportunity because he thinks it's lame is just—

He bites down on the surge of anger that always wells up when he thinks about it.

Doctor Scabel had been really cool about the whole thing though. When Peter had emailed to let him know he wouldn't be coming back because his dad was psycho, he'd offered to keep Peter on by telecommuting.

 _There's plenty you can help me with via video chat or email!_ he'd written.

Not getting to go to OsCorp in person had stung, but the things he's been learning and doing with the doc are so completely what he wanted it doesn't even matter.

Peter can't wait to see the rest of the tour and he _especially_ can't wait until he finds his opening. Ever since they found out they'd be going on this trip, Peter's been planning.

They're waiting for the elevator when his phone goes off again. His hand drops to his pocket and Gwen catches the movement out of the corner of her eye. She glances up at him and then eases between Peter and the closest chaperone. “My hero,” he whispers to her and smiles when he sees her cheek curve in reply.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she murmurs. He hunches down to peer at the screen and pauses to nuzzle her shoulder.

“But Gwennn,” he says, making his voice extra plaintive and she throws her hand to her forehead.

“No, not the puppy eyes!” she cries in a dramatic Southern accent and he has to stifle a laugh in her shoulder blade, hiding the phone in the small of her back when everybody turns to look.

“You are terrible at stealth-ops,” he whispers when he thinks most everyone has looked away.

“Not my division,” she retorts. Gwen loves TV shows from the aughts. “Will you check already?”

Peter stifles a laugh in the hood draped across her shoulders and does as he's told and pulls up the texts. They're from his dads. The first two are from Tony, the earliest a snapshot of a cowl-less Captain America with a line of black stitches that slants diagonally down from the ridge on the left side of his forehead all the way to the arch of his right eyebrow. It looks like he tried to clean up some of the liberal amounts of blood dried on his face, but he hadn't been very successful. It's like a horror movie rendition of himself with blood crusted in his eyebrows, in dark rivulets down both sides of his nose, his temples. Peter wonders if his dad's skull wasn't stronger than an ordinary man's, if whatever had done that could have— _okay, stop. Stop. No._ He deletes the photo and his dad's other text comes up:

**dad 13:04  
February 6, 2031**

_looks nasty, but no concussion. he loves it when i  
call him Frankie._

Peter snorts. The next message is from his other dad, but he has to wait until he and Gwen are stuffed into the back corner of the elevator to read it because one of OsCorp's two assigned escorts for their class keeps sidling up beside them.

**DAD 13:05  
February 6, 2031**

_I really am okay, Peter. Please put your phone away_  
 _now and enjoy your field trip. I know you've been_  
 _looking forward to it for weeks. Love you. Dad._

“Your dad is adorable,” Gwen whispers and Peter pins her with a look. “He signs all his texts!”

“Please never say that again.” Dad does sign all his texts though. Peter's tried a thousand times to get him to stop.

“I'm just saying,” Gwen says with a prim little shake of her head. “He's like a giant marshmallow. A giant, red, white, and blue, butt-kicking marshmallow.”

Peter slips his phone back into his bag as they shuffle off of the elevator. “All right!” their tour guide says. “Do we have any visitors who have arachnophobia?”

A couple of girls at the front of the group giggle nervously and Gwen wraps her hand around Peter's arm, leaning up on her toes to look at their guide. “Is he serious?” she whispers.

Peter checks the guide's face again and nods. “Yeah, looks pretty serious.” He raises an eyebrow at her. “Are you?”

“No. No,” Gwen says, shaking her head and staring at the guide as he separates out several of the students who have decided that they are. “No, I'm not _phobic._ I just. Prefer it when they're not near me.”

Peter's laugh catches in his throat. “Oh, well, okay then. You coming?” he asks when the guide starts walking backwards again, waving his hands and talking enthusiastically about OsCorp's numerous spider-related projects.

“Yep,” Gwen says. “Yep, I'm coming. Here I come.” She grabs his hand then, her grip a little too tight, and Peter can't bring himself to care.

“Oh my god,” Gwen breathes a few minutes later when they reach the archway leading into the department's _tour de force_ and her grip on his hand grows a fraction tighter. This is one of the places in the building that he's been dying to see. The Tunnel, as Doctor S is always calling it, is home to the world’s most expensive arachnids. Each one is worth like, quarter of a million dollars or something.

The tour guide uses his badge on an access pad, which flashes a little green light, the door making a soft _click_ as it comes unlocked. It's glass, set in a half-moon glass wall, behind which is a tunnel filled with a low lagoon-colored light. The entire class hushes as they move through the door, the tour guide speaking in a stage-whisper.

All up and down the first sections of the tunnel walls are hundreds—maybe thousands—of soft, gauzy white spider's webs, densely woven in between pegs sticking out of the walls. There are tiny eight-legged bodies moving over the webs and Peter stares in awe.

Each section is marked with a small placard, attached to the hand railing and tilted upward for easy reading. The first shows an enlarged image of the little round spiders—they're actually kinda cute—moving across the webs and it reads: _Aridne borabilias_ – A small genetically modified specimen, which spins masses of webbing. The webs are regularly harvested to be used for various strengthening and binding projects. These spiders produce the strongest, most lightweight, and the most flexible substance on earth.

Peter leans in to get a closer look and Gwen makes a little noise, pulls back on his hand. “Peter, what are you doing,” she hisses, “don't stick your face in there!”

Peter looks back at her and grins, “Relax, Gwen. They wouldn't let us in here if there was anything dangerous.” And—this is one of the things Peter loves about her—Gwen gets that. So she leans in too, holding her breath and just about crushing his fingers, but she leans in and looks. Peter just stares at her, totally dumbstruck.

“Okay,” she says, and waves a finger at a small section, “These ones are actually a little bit adorable.” She looks up at him then and catches him gawking and Peter feels heat flood his face. She gives him a funny look and straightens up, says, “What?” She pats her cheek. “Is there something on my face?”

“No— I was just— You're kind of, you know.”

Now she looks like she's trying not to laugh at him. “Am I now.”

“Shut up,” he mutters and gives her a little push to get her moving. Gwen laughs and it makes the little hairs all down his spine tingle.

The two of them drift along at the very back of the group, reading the placards and examining the various species of spiders—one called _dominae oribus_ has even created these tubes of webbing between each of the pegs, each spider hidden somewhere inside, barely visible. “Okay, those ones creep me out,” Gwen admits. “Come on, next section.” She tugs on his hand and Peter lets her drag him forward.

The last two sections on either side of the tunnel are dummy set-ups. “'The _barola mindicus_ and _aracadia traxila_ are OsCorp's most advanced research specimens',” Peter reads, for Gwen's benefit. Been there, done that, got the app, like his dad is always saying. “'These spiders have been not only genetically modified, but irradiated and as a result must be kept in special habitats to protect the scientists working with them. These displays are to give you an idea of what these specimens and their habitats look like.'”

Gwen's frowning. “Irradiated spiders. That's a terrible idea. It's a miracle any of them are even still alive. Does it say why they're doing it?”

Peter leans down to get a better look at the placard, then across the aisle to look at the other one and shakes his head. “No, doesn't say. Must be something big.”

He actually knows why.

The _aracadia traxila_ and the spiders are part of an attempt to recreate the effects of the mutant gene, the super soldier serum, and the radiation effects that created The Fantastic Four. That's what Doctor S works on.

And after a semester of studying the data and the simulations and the history of all three groups, Peter is _sure_ that this is the answer to his problems.

“Or something ethically questionable,” Gwen mutters. “I mean irradiation, come on. You don't mess with that. You'd think people would learn after what happened to your uncle.”

 _It’s not the same_ , Peter wants to tell her, but if anyone ever found out about what he and Scabel are about to do, the entire program would be shut down. Scabel would be in massive trouble for unapproved testing and for involving a minor, even if it’s what Peter _wants._

“Can you imagine a spider Hulking out?” Peter says instead, chuckling as he leans over the railing, checking out the display spiders and admitting he's glad these ones are fake when his stomach gives an uneasy roll. They're the creepiest kind, with long, pointed legs and visible fangs—they look a lot like black widows, but they're pale and semi-transparent, eerie-looking in the blue lighting.

Gwen shudders and says, in a low voice, “Oh my god, don't even joke. My worst nightmare.”

The doors at the end of the hall swing shut behind the last of their classmates as she moves up close behind him and the shifting light tricks Peter into thinking that the display has moved. Dozens of spindly legs waver, reaching out, and Peter's hand clenches around the guard rail. He straightens, a little zing of irrational fear darting into the base of his skull. “Okay,” he says, voice coming out a little higher than it should. “I think I've had about enough of the spiders for today. Gwen?”

Relief breaks across her face. “Oh, thank god, let's go. I don't want to be alone in here.”

It's already too late for that though; they're the only ones left in the muffled quiet of the tunnel. Thanks to his mildly enhanced hearing, Peter can hear a whisper from the far end as thousands of tiny web-spiders skitter around. _How does anyone do research in here without getting a massive case of the creeps?_

Gwen grabs hold of his hand and Peter pulls away from the railing, feels a sharp prick on the side of his hand. “Ouch!” he says, snatching it back.

Gwen hesitates and looks up at him, eyes wide and her face ghostly in the strange blue light. Her freckles are stark across her nose. “Peter? Did something just—”

“No,” Peter mutters, because that's ridiculous, and bends forward to peer under the sign on the railing. Gwen's twisting his hand around so she can look at the stinging spot on the side.

“You have a little cut,” she tells him and Peter nods as she says it because he can see the culprit.

“Yeah, there's a screw under there sticking out.”

“Come on, let's _go,_ ” Gwen says, tugging on his arm, “I am so creeped out right now. I thought you—”

“You thought I got bit by a spider, didn't you?” Peter says, his amusement leaking out into his voice as she hauls him toward the doors. “You thought one of the radioactive spiders was roaming free and attacked me. You thought I was going to turn into The Thing.”

“Shut up,” Gwen mutters and pokes him in the ribs. “General Jerk.”

Peter laughs. “General! Hey, at least I out-rank my dad.”

The light outside the tunnel is painfully bright and both he and Gwen wince. The class has gotten ahead of them, but not too far. Peter tugs on Gwen's sleeve lightly and says, “Hey, I'm gonna run for the bathroom, cover for me?”

Gwen gives him a look and says, “You had better dig deep and find some super speed.”

“Scout's honor,” Peter says, backing away from her with his fingers spread in the Vulcan salute.

“You are maligning my dad's favorite thing!” Gwen hisses after him.

~

Much to Clint's displeasure, Steve insists that he, Bruce, and Natasha hit the road. He never once looks Clint in the eye as he does it, either.

Nothing he can do about it for now though, so Clint sighs and readjusts the ice around his arm as the three of them traverse the gray halls of HQ. He can't wait to get back to the outside. He never minded until Tony moved them all into the Tower and he got used to extravagance. God, he's gone soft.

Natasha looks up at him, eyes searching his face. “I take it things went well, then.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “Oh, yeah, just super.”

“I think I missed something,” Bruce says, expression curious.

“Don't worry about it,” Clint says, waving a hand. “I'll talk to Tony and he'll handle it. How's the intel on the Fjin coming?”

“Slowly,” Tash says and it obviously annoys her. Clint loves her so much it hurts. “I offered to go into the field, but—”

“' _You're too damn famous, soldier,'_ ” Clint quotes in his best Fury impression. “Goddamn, I hate that.”

“One of the most dangerous groups we've encountered in years and we have to sit and wait.” Her nose wrinkles. “I hate waiting.”

Bruce smiles wryly, fiddling with the twist of paper he keeps in his pocket. “You got into the wrong line of work.”

Nat throws a sardonic smile smile at him and Bruce's smile broadens into a grin.

They exit the building into a blast of frigid air. Natasha twists her hair up onto her head in one graceful movement, tucking it up under a black knit hat. The air feels heavy, sucking the warmth right out of Clint's skin and he shudders, grimacing as his shoulder throbs. He flips up the collar of his coat and digs the keys to the car out of his pocket, but Natasha snatches them out of his hand immediately.

"Aw, come on, Nat—" he starts, but she just beeps the doors to unlock and climbs in behind the wheel.

She tosses him a look as she shuts the door and he sighs and circles around to shotgun as Bruce takes the seat behind her. Before he climbs in, Bruce puts his hand up to block the wind from his face and calls, “Feels like a storm is coming.”

Clint glances up at the sky, finds dark gray clouds slithering in from the north. “Looks like,” he agrees. Bruce shivers, pulling his coat tighter around his body and slips into the car.

Clint does the same, folding his arms over his chest, and ignores the twinge of pain it causes, resisting the urge to pout only because Bruce is in the car and Darcy isn't. Pouting still works on her, but it never has on Tasha. "You cheat," he says to Natasha.

She grins at him and starts the car. "I play to win," she corrects.

Bruce's expression is amused in the rearview mirror and Clint huffs and stares out the window for the entire drive home, torn between wanting Darcy to have heard about the mission and be waiting for him and not wanting her to have heard and worry about him.

~

Peter's heart starts to beat a little faster as he makes his way through the building, walking fast. He adjusts his glasses for the gazillionth time, and hopes if anyone notices him, his pace will keep them from finding him out of place. Gwen is probably going to be furious with him when he gets back, but hopefully this won't take long. All they have to do is administer the dose, and he’s out of there.

The fight with his dad to get his slip signed had been really ugly. It's the only time in his life Peter's ever yelled at him.

At the elevators, Peter slips inside, ducking his head at the looks he gets from all of the adult occupants.

He can barely stand still, fingers tapping against the straps of his backpack. A man standing in the far corner of the car gives him a look and Peter shoots him a nervous smile, clenching his fingers to stop the tapping. God, please don't let anyone recognize him or catch him or, oh man, his dads would _freak_ if they heard he'd snuck away from the class. And if they knew what he was doing?

Despite what their past-selves have done, Peter's pretty sure they wouldn't approve. He's doing it to help though. It's the right thing to do.

The elevator climbs steadily upward, Peter squirming the whole way and trying not to look suspicious while he does it. It's just creeping past the last floor when a woman narrows her eyes at him and speaks up. “Are you—”

“Getting off here, yep, thanks, can you just—” He gestures at the button and one of the other men presses it for him. “Thanks.”

The woman goes quiet, frowning, and Peter bites the inside of his cheek. _Come on, hurry up!_

Finally, the elevator doors slide open and Peter squeezes through.

The floor is expansive and open, split up by glass walls—which must suck to keep clean—and, oh, wow, they've got a DNA replicator and some centrifuges, and _is that a mass spectrometer?_

He can't help a giddy little laugh from escaping his throat. He claps a hand over his mouth to stifle further noises and tries to get himself together. Oh, god, he's delirious. “Be cool,” he orders.

Each of the rooms has a keypad fitted into the glass next to the door. They look like keycard scanners, with maybe a touch panel for a code or a palm scan, maybe. It's not the worst, but it's definitely nowhere near as secure as the Tower. He wonders if the walls are actually glass, or if they're a polymer like the ones in his dad's lab and reaches out to touch the smooth surface.

There's a woman in a lab coat on the other side staring at him.

Peter flushes and snatches his hand back, head ducking. He hurries away through the corridor.

Scabel's lab is in the middle of the floor. His name is printed on the blue lit placard above the keypad and the man himself is sitting at one of the lab tables inside hunched toward a holographic screen hovering over the center. Peter's mouth quirks up in a smile. He likes the Doc. He's funny, although Peter's not really sure he means to be.

A swallow catches and sticks in his throat, around his rabbiting heart, and Peter realizes he's nervous. This is something he's gotta do though. He's a liability the way he is. He's not going to be anymore. After this they won't be able to stop him from helping.

He tries to imagine his dads' faces if they knew what he was doing, and he can't quite do it. But Tony _built_ himself a suit, and Steve was offered the super soldier serum. This is the same thing.

He wants to help people and watch out for his family and that's a good thing, right?

They'll be proud, when he can keep up with them running across the city, scaling buildings, and punching bad guys. And he'll feel better when he can look out for them the way they look out for him.

Peter steps forward and knocks lightly on the glass.

Doctor Scabel looks up, confused for a moment. Then he sees Peter's face and his expression goes comically wide. He's about the same height Tony is when he's wearing his lifts. Brown hair, brown eyes, tanned skin and eyebrows that are tilted in a little bit toward his nose under a creased brow. He kind of looks like a surprised orange.

Peter waves, and grins.

Scabel hurries over and pushes open the door, waving him inside. “Come in, come in, you made it. That's excellent.”

“Hey, Doctor S. Thanks for seeing me. My teacher's gonna freak when she realizes I'm not with the rest of the class, so can we get right to it? I'm sorry to rush you, I can't tell you how much I appreciate this.”

“No, no, no,” Scabel says, “You're doing me a favor.”

“I've been studying your research for ages now, Doc,” Peter says. “Considering what we know about the Fantastic Four and Doctor Banner, it makes sense that the key to unlocking superhuman abilities in non-mutants would be radiation-based. It's totally possible that the Vita-Rays they used to make Captain America were a form of radiation.”

Scabel looks spooked at the mention of Peter's dad. It's taken him weeks to talk Scabel into letting him be the first guinea pig. “You do understand the risks this poses, don't you? There is, of course, no guarantee, and the process could be very unpleasant. Several of my test subjects were sick for days.”

The subjects Scabel is talking about are a few rabbits of his own and some mice. The ones that hadn't died from the small dose of spider venom that went along with the serum had shown improvement in several areas. Peter's sure that the traits from his dad's blood that keep him healthier than most kids, that improve his hearing and make him heal a little faster, will keep the venom from doing anything except maybe make him sick for a little while.

Peter nods. “No, I understand. I think the science is sound. If there's a way to do this, I think this is it.”

Scabel wrings his hands.

“Come on, Doc. You did your research, right? You can finally prove to everybody that you knew what you were doing all along.”

That makes Scabel's eyes gleam, just the way he knew it would. The guy's hungry to prove himself. Peter knows how that feels.

“Come,” Scabel says, beckoning him forward. There are a row of plexiglass boxes sunk into the wall over one stretch of countertop and Peter blinks at the series of small habitats inside them. Scabel reaches for the handle on one of them—it's unlit and Peter can just make out the curve of a length of pipe or something sitting on the bottom. “This is the only way to administer,” Scabel says apologetically. “The serum degrades when exposed to oxygen.”

“Oh, super,” Peter says. “Just what I've always wanted. Here goes nothing.”

Scabel pulls out the little plexiglass case just far enough for Peter to slip his hand inside. For a second he just stands there, heart thumping against his sternum, hand dangling inside the box, before realizing the goal here is not to _avoid_ getting bitten. So he grimaces and reaches down, fluttering his fingers inside the opening of the pipe.

A pale, spindly-legged spider, just like the one he'd been looking at with Gwen not ten minutes ago comes scuttling out the other end, front legs waving in clear agitation.

“Ugh,” Peter says, the skin crawling along the back of his neck and up his arms. His fingers curl involuntarily, but he pushes his hand toward the spider, closing his eyes. He hears rustling as it skitters through the wood shavings covering the bottom of the plexiglass box—then the hairs on his arm rise up in a wave as something tickles his knuckles. He yelps at a sudden sharp stab of pain near the base of his thumb and bangs his hand on the top of the enclosure.

“There, there, it's done,” Scabel says, but Peter feels it bite him _again._

Scabel grabs onto his wrist when he tries to pull his hand out and holds him there, using a thin metal ruler to brush the spider off of Peter's hand. He lets go and Peter jerks away, Scabel pushing the box back into the wall as the spider slinks back into the pipe.

Peter hisses, four dots of blood marking the back of his hand. His heart is racing. “I'm going to be extra super,” he quips, but some of the humor is lost in the shaking of his voice.

“No, it doesn't work like that,” Scabel says. He stares into Peter's face, worry wrinkling his features. “Are you all right?”

“Sure. Sure, yeah, sure,” Peter babbles, staring at the spots of blood.

He did it. Oh, wow, he did it.

~

To Clint's disappointment, Darcy isn't home from work. Workdays are stupid.

Bruce begs off to go finish a paper he's been working on and Tasha escorts Clint up to their floor and then abandons him like an abandoning abandoner to go meet with Pepper, which is just like her.

He spends approximately four minutes on the couch before he's bored out of his mind. Despite the inadvisable nature of it considering what he's done to his shoulder, he crawls into the vents, hissing and cursing, and heads for the penthouse. Peter should be home soon and ice cream sounds awesome.

When he pops open the vent in Peter's room and drops down onto the kid's desk, JARVIS drawls, “Must you, Sir?”

Clint grins, hanging onto his shoulder while he waits for it to stop throbbing like crazy. “Tough love, J, or you'll never learn.”

“It would be so easy to have Mister Stark weaponize the vents.”

“Pfft,” Clint says, waving a hand as he makes his way out to the living room. “You probably should and as if that would stop me.”

“That you think I need it to stop you is utterly precocious.”

Clint snorts in amusement. Honestly, he's seen what JARVIS can do and he's probably right. Doesn't mean he needs the ego boost. “Keep telling yourself that.” He's scrounging for the ice cream when something occurs to him. “Hey, JARVIS, you know anything about the Fjin?”

“I know that I am not _supposed_ to,” JARVIS replies, coy as ever, the bastard.

“And what if I told you Nat needed some intel or her head was gonna bust?”

“Anything for Miss Romanova,” JARVIS purrs. Clint grins and digs in.

~

“Where have you _been?”_ Ms. Marsh demands when Peter jogs up to the group ten minutes later. He flushes as the whole of his classmates turn to stare at him, Gwen giving him a _what the hell, dude?_ look as he comes up beside her.

“I, um, got lost coming back from the bathroom?” Peter says. He feels a little strange going back to class in the wake of the potentially life-changing punctures on his hand. It all feels kind of far-off.

“That is why we have _escorts_ ,” Ms. Marsh exclaims. “Your fathers—”

That snaps him out of it pretty quick. “I'm back, I made it back, I didn't get in trouble, so can we please, please not involve them, I mean, they have enough stress in their lives, don't you think?”

She glares at him. “If you step so much as one toe away from this group, your field trip privileges will be _revoked._ I will not deal with your parents wrath because you have itchy feet!”

He knows she won't tell them, though, because that would mean having to answer questions like, _How did he get away in the first place? Isn't this your_ job _?_ and Tony's been known to be a little litigious in this area.

“I had to go to the bathroom!” Peter protests.

“You know better than to go without letting someone know where you are going!” Ms. Marsh barks. A cluster of the students behind her back are snickering and miming spraying him with water like a bad dog.

Peter hunches his shoulders and says, “Okay, fine. I got it. Don't go pee anymore.”

“ _Detention_ ,” Ms. Marsh hisses, followed by a chorus of _oooooh._ “Quiet! Now does anyone _else_ need to use the restroom? No? Good. Let's go on.”

As they resume walking, Gwen whispers, “What happened to you really?”

Peter makes puppy-dog eyes at her and pulls his sleeve down over the Band-Aids on his hand. “I ran into Doctor Scabel on the way.”

Gwen huffs, arms crossed over her chest, but all she says is, “You owe me, Mister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Graphic descriptions of injuries, manipulation.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter!

Peter drops his skateboard when the elevator doors slide open and puts his foot down on it, pushing off so he glides through the penthouse of Avengers Tower. He nearly goes flying over a decorative table when a voice calls, “Pretty sure you're not supposed to skateboard in here, buddy.”

Instead, Peter skids to a stop just shy of the table and retorts, “And I'm pretty sure you're on the wrong floor.”

Uncle Clint grins at him from where he's sitting on the kitchen island with a tub of Tony's favorite ice cream between his thighs, his mouth bowing obscenely around a spoon. His right arm's in a sling, but other than that he looks okay.

“You know dad blames _me_ when you do that.”

Clint's grin turns even more satisfied and he pops the spoon out of his mouth with a sucking noise, lapping the lingering ice cream off. “I know.”

“You're an ass.”

He rolls his eyes when Clint clucks disapprovingly and says, “If your fathers heard the way you talk to me...”

“If my fathers heard the way I talk to you, they'd know you sneak in through the vents,” Peter says, dropping his bag by the table as he heads to the fridge.

“Touché,” Clint says, pointing the spoon at him thoughtfully.

“Sir,” JARVIS says, “your father prefers you take your bookbag and shoes into your room, rather than leaving them on the floor here.”

That'd be Steve. Tony's as bad about cluttering the house up as Peter is. Probably worse actually. “You know, normal kids do stuff they're not supposed to all the time when their parents aren't home. That's kind of the whole idea. Kids do stuff they're not supposed to, parents come home and tell them off, kids moan and whine and do stuff they should have done in the first place. It's family synergy, JARVIS. Why do you want to go ruining that?”

“And you're mad about getting blamed for the ice cream?” Clint says.

JARVIS sighs without sighing and says, “I really don't know, sir. Perhaps all that energy could be directed toward more positive discussions.”

Peter rolls his eyes because odds are they'd all wind up arguing about what TV show they're going to watch instead, but whatever. “I'll get it later, J.”

“Very well, sir,” JARVIS says with another non-sigh. Peter rifles around in the fridge for a minute before settling on some pop—Mexican Coke his dad has shipped in special because it tastes the way Coke did a hundred years ago or whatever—and thinks about texting his dad, but resists in the end because he's probably in debriefing and Director Fury always gets his panties in a bunch when his dads text during those. He can feel Clint's eyes on the back of his head. Peter tries not to fidget and says, as casually as he can manage, “Wha'd you do to your arm?”

When he turns around to lean on the island, Clint's shrugging and filling his mouth with ice cream again. “Grapple hook,” he says around a mouthful. “Smacked into the building exterior.”

Peter snags the spoon out of his mouth and uses it to scoop out a blob of ice cream, which he drops in his Coke before stabbing it back into the carton. “Smooth.”

“I'd like to see you calculate velocity and trajectory when you're in free fall, smartass.”

“If you'd ever take me _up_ with you—”

With one smooth motion, Clint pulls the tub out from between his legs, moving it to the countertop and hops down, turning to face him. “Are we gonna have this argument again?”

Peter tilts his chin up. “I just don't see why you won't let me.”

“Hello. Duh. Your dads have expressly forbidden it. I may be the cool uncle, but there's no way in hell I'm going to risk pissing them off—not for this. No superhero stuff till you graduate—”

“I _know,_ I _know_ , because school's important, I'm only gonna be a kid once, there will be plenty of time to throw myself into danger when I'm older; _I know._ But you picked up a bow when you were an _actual_ child and...”

Clint raises an eyebrow. “And what? And your dad was twenty-five before he even volunteered for the serum? And your _other_ dad was thirty-eight when he built the first Iron Man suit? Oh, and what's that, your uncle was thirty-two when _he_ had an experiment blow up in his face and turn him into a rage monster it's taken him three decades to learn how to handle? And your _other_ uncle was _literally a thousand years old_ before his dad banished his ass?”

“Oh, come on,” Peter scoffs, “that's not fair, it's the Midgardian equivalent of _eighteen_.”

Crossing his arms over his chest and leveling his gaze at Peter, Clint says, “You're a gigantic nerd. We live on Earth. Planet Earth. You are not _of Asgard_.”  
  
“No, if I _was_ we wouldn't be having this argument.”

“Your aunt,” Clint says, implacable, like that's an argument. It kind of is. He pulls the Coke out of Peter's hands and Peter glares at him sullenly. “You're lucky, Pete. You need to get that through your oversized brain. You pick up a lot of baggage in our line of work and no amount of therapy's gonna help you put it back down. I love Nat, you know I do, but she was _half_ your age when she got into the business and she's _still_ more comfortable with a glock and a garrote than she is with hugs and a home life. ”

_Aunt Nat didn't volunteer for it_ , Peter doesn't say. Instead he says: “I don't feel lucky.”

They don't understand. They don’t know what it’s like being surrounded by people the world thinks are incredible, who go out and save the planet every couple of months, and to be thought of as their genius little kid mascot. He can do more than that. Can _be_ more than that. He doesn't have any right to do any less than them.

Before Uncle Clint can respond, JARVIS says, “Your fathers are coming up the elevator, sir.”

Peter straightens and spins around to look at the clock on the stove. It's almost five already. “Crap, dinner, dinner, I gotta make dinner!”

“May I suggest spaghetti rotini, sir?” JARVIS says.

Peter's yanking boxes and pans out of the cabinets while Clint makes himself a nuisance when the elevator door pings and slides open. He tries to play it cool as he flips the water on and starts filling one of the pots, his heart pounding.

“Hey,” Clint says, leaning against the counter next to the stove. “Relax. He's fine.”

Peter glances at him, a _what are you talking about?_ on the tip of his tongue when he hears Tony's voice and his heart kicks up another notch, though he can't quite make out what Tony's saying. It sounds snarky, whatever it is.

Shocker.

Then he calls, “Peter?”

“In here, Dads!” Peter yells back and swings around to put the pot on the stove. He switches on the burner and then turns to greet them, leaning sideways to see into the open floor of the penthouse.

It takes a conscious effort not to flinch. Dad looks better with the blood cleaned from his face, but it makes the long line of stitches stark against his pale skin. There have to be at least fifty.

He's also limping.

“He bruised his hip,” Tony says and Peter realizes he's staring. He looks up and Tony tilts his head, pursing his lips. “Don't give me that look, I didn't tell you because it's not a big deal. It's a bruise. It'll be gone in a week.”

“You practically fell over yourself to try and get me off my feet when you picked me up, Tony,” Steve says, dry.

Tony's nose wrinkles and he shoots a dirty look at Steve. “Sit down before you fall down, old timer.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but eases into a chair on the other side of the bar. 

“What are you doing here, Barton?” Tony asks, without ever looking at him, and then: “ _Is that my ice cream, Peter?”_

Clint crosses his arms and grins lazily at the back of Tony's head. “Aw, don't be like that, Stark. I was just checking on our baby boy. Maybe you need to start locking up the freezer. This kid gets into everything.” His arm comes out before Peter can dodge and he groans as Clint makes his already unmanageable hair even more of a mess.

“Thank you,” Steve says while Tony's wrinkling his nose at Clint and shooting dirty looks at Peter. What's he going to say? He did put it in his Coke, which is _right there on the counter._ Clint pokes his fingers into the sauce pan where Peter's heating the spaghetti sauce. He hisses as it burns his fingers and sucks them into his mouth.

Tony narrows his eyes. “Staying to eat or just contributing _essence du Clint?”_

Rolling off of the counter, Clint smirks and dips his fingers in one more time, just to see the look on Tony's face. “Nah, can't stay. Tash and Darce are expecting me and I like my balls where they are.” Then he catches Tony's gaze and beckons with two fingers. “Walk me to the elevator.”

Tony gives him an assessing look and then says, “Yeah, I'd better.” For some reason being left alone with his dad makes Peter's stomach flutter. He focuses on the boiling pasta harder than is really necessary as the silence drags out, the sound of Tony and Clint's voices a low, distant murmur. 

“So...dinner, huh?” Steve says eventually, looking around at the stuff Peter's haphazardly thrown on the counter and Peter breathes out, feels the nerves start to ease away. He looks around at it too and shrugs.

“I'm giving up science. I want to be a chef.”

Tony returns just in time to hear that. He snorts. “Smartass.”

“I wonder where he gets that,” Steve says, cheek propped on his fist.

“No idea,” Tony replies, blithe as can be, and then sidles into the kitchen and nudges Peter with his elbow, followed by a hip bump. “Go give your dad a hug.”

With a groan and an eyeroll, Peter obeys and shuffles around the counter to slide into the seat next to Steve. He smiles and lifts his arm so Peter can lean into his side. He kisses the top of Peter's head and Peter huffs, but something inside him that's been tight all day unfurls at last.

“I'm sorry I didn't wake you before I left.”

“S'okay,” Peter mutters into his shoulder. “Evil waits for no man.”

Steve squeezes him and Peter just lets himself enjoy his dad's solid and very present heat for a minute. "When did you get so grown up?" Steve murmurs affectionately.  
  
"Took an e-course in maturity at NYU this afternoon."  
  
Tony nearly chokes on the grated cheese he's just put in his mouth.  
  
Peter manages a half smile before he leans his forehead into his dad's shoulder and says, quiet, "I wish you wouldn't go alone."  
  
Steve's hand curls around the back of his neck. "I wasn't alone. Didn't your dad tell you? Bruce and Clint went with me."  
  
"Yeah, but, I mean when you go without _Dad._ "  
  
Steve shifts and Peter keeps his face down. "We can't always go together, Peter."  
  
"I _know_ ," Peter says and he's whining, he knows he is and he can see Tony out of the corner of his eye just standing there looking at him and he hates it, hates how he feels like a little kid. Peter turns his face into Steve's chest. "I just— If I had more than really great hearing and stupid—stupid _enhanced_ _metabolism_ I could— When Dad can't."  
  
"Peter, we've talked about this," Steve says gently. "You don't need enhancements to make you capable. You're fast and powerful and _healthy_ and you're going to be formidable one day, but you're still a kid _._ If you want this when you're older, your Dad and I won't stop you. I can't tell you how proud it makes me that you want to help people and look out for your Dad and I, but you've got school and there's no hurry.”

“I know, I just— _hate it_.”

“I know you do,” Steve says and smooths his hand over Peter's head. “Your time will come faster than you think.”

Peter stares down at his lap and the kitchen is quiet aside from the bubbling pot on the stove. He brushes his fingers over the Band-Aids. It’s coming a lot faster than they think, too.

Then Tony says, “Isn't anyone going to ask how my day was?”

Peter snorts into Steve's chest and just like that the gloomy silence is gone.

“Nobody's asked how anyone's day was, Tony,” Steve points out.

“Well, then I should be first,” he says primly, pouring the steaming pot of pasta into a colander in the sink.

Peter grins when Steve rolls his eyes and waves a hand. “How was your day, Tony?”

“Oh, you know,” Tony says and gives the spaghetti a toss. “Same ol' same ol'. Boring board meeting. Even more boring shareholder's meeting. Berated by Pepper for falling asleep during said meetings. Not that any of those old frauds would know; mirrored shades, Pete, they'll save your life.”

“You're a terrible role-model, you know that, Dad? Like, really awful.”

Tony turns and flashes a grin at Peter before his eyelids drop to half-mast and he tips his chin at Steve. “That's what you've got your dad for. Evens out.” Peter really wishes he wasn't old enough to recognize it when Tony's smoldering.

Steve gives him a look that clearly says, _I know what you're doing. Stop it._

But of course Dad's grin just gets _more_ predatory.

Then he misses the pot a little as he's pouring the spaghetti back in and he curses as a handful of noodles tumble down his front. “Shit, not my Armani—ow, shit those are hot! Ow!”

Steve heaves a long-suffering sigh and Peter cracks up, waving his hand when Steve starts to get to his feet. “No, no, I got it, Dad.”

Tony's cursing, shaking his leg, and there are noodles clinging to the inseam of his slacks and puddled on the floor. “Pete— Goddamn it, DUM-E, where are you, you useless piece of junk—”

“Yeah, I can finish,” Peter says, still chuckling as he gathers up the noodles. DUM-E joins him then, beeping and bumping into his shoulder. He's waving a sponge in his claw and Peter pats him, says, “Thanks, DUM-E.”

“Coddler!” Dad yells as he makes his way to the bedroom to change. Peter pours the spaghetti sauce into the pan and stirs it in while DUM-E motors back and forth over the spill. Steve makes a fond noise of exasperation and for a minute, the kitchen is quiet again.

“So...what happened in Cleveland?” Peter eventually asks, glancing back over his shoulder and trying for casual.

Steve gives a slow, weary shrug. “A group of about a dozen militant fascists were building a bomb on a rooftop. A couple of them were mutants so the Cleveland police couldn't handle it. Bruce came along in case things got messy and your Uncle Clint and I tried to capture them with minimum use of force.” He looks down at the bar top. “We managed it with most, but there were two ordinary men and one mutant who just wouldn't come quietly. The men were throwing _grenades_ at us, off the building down into the streets and we couldn't get to them. I had to ask Clint to—well.” Steve looks tired and Peter totally, totally useless. “The last mutant was the worst of all of them. He had these—whips coming out of his wrists that he could control.” His dad touches the line of stitches on his forehead and Peter knows the wound is from one of those whips, can almost picture it happening.

He flinches away from the thought and starts dishing out the spaghetti.

Dad takes a breath and says, “But we stopped them. They're not going to hurt anyone else and that's what matters.”

“I'm sure you handled it flawlessly,” comes Tony's voice and Peter looks up to see him in sweats and an old t-shirt, laying a kiss on Steve's cheek.

Steve smiles and curls his hand around the one Tony's laid on the counter top. “Thanks.”

Tony offers him a faint smile in return and slides his hand up the back of Steve's neck and into his hair, giving the back of his head a rub like he's a puppy. “So, Bambi? Dinner? Yeah? I'm starving.”

“Only if you guys promise to stop making goo-goo eyes at each other for the duration.”

Tony gasps in mock-affront, putting a hand over the arc reactor.

Steve nods in agreement. “Done.”

Peter looks to Tony with raised eyebrows and his dad huffs. “Blackmailed by my own kid, geez, that's fantastic, really. Kudos to us on the child-rearing. Bang-up job we did here, Steve.”

“Tony,” Steve chastises, but Tony ignores him and says, “All right, all right, no goo-goo eyes. Gimme.”

Peter grins and hands over their bowls. The three of them migrate to the table, Tony watching with sharp, displeased eyes as Steve hoists himself up and then limps over, favoring his leg even more heavily than when they'd come in. He settles into his usual chair and he's not grimacing or anything when he looks up and says, “What about your day, Peter? You hardly said a word about your trip to OsCorp. You've been looking forward to it for weeks.”

Dinner at the table is their thing. Steve insists that the three of them sit down and eat dinner together every night. If he had his way they'd do it for breakfast, too, but Tony's only willing to concede so much, so it's usually Peter and Steve at breakfast, Tony breezing in and out if they're lucky. But Dad says dinner time is Family Time. He knows neither Tony nor Peter is comfortable when they're not multitasking, so he allows them to bring projects to the table as long as they're capable of carrying on a conversation while they work and eat while the food's hot. It's a pretty good system, Peter thinks.

“I still can't believe you're into _OsCorp,_ ” Tony gripes. “Those bozos wouldn't know a technological advancement if it did a pirouette wearing a frilly tutu and bit them in the ass.”

Steve glares at him. Peter rolls his eyes because he's heard this about _a thousand times._ “They're the leading bio-mechanical technology company in the world, Dad.”

“Exactly!”

Peter rolls his eyes again and turns to face Steve more fully, ignoring the way Tony mutters, “Maturity e-course, my ass.”

“It was great, Dad. They're doing a lot of really cool stuff there. I couldn't take a lot of pictures because, you know, patents and stuff—”

“Secret illegal experiments,” Tony cuts in under his breath.  


“—but I got some pretty cool shots that I'll have to show you.”

“More of Gwen?” Steve says, doing a half-hearted job of stifling his smile.

Peter can feel the blood rush to his face. “Dad!”

“She's a pretty girl, I can see why you like taking pictures of her is all,” Dad says, but he looks ready to laugh.

“Gwen is— We're just— It's not _like_ that, Dad—”

Tony raises an eyebrow and draws his fork out of his mouth, says, “Yeah, we _should_ talk about Gwen.”

Peter groans and buries his head in his elbows. "Dad, can you _not_. Please, I'm begging you." 

"Tony," Steve says, his voice hard. 

"That girl—"

"Oh my god, Dad, there's nothing wrong with Gwen. Her dad's a police chief!"

" _That girl,_ " Tony goes on viciously, raising his voice to drown Peter out, "is trouble. You should have more than one friend, Peter!"

"I don't need any other friends, nobody else gets me—"  
  
"Ha, 'gets you', what's there to get? You're a great kid! Period. And don't even get me started on the kid-of-a-police-chief bullshit. In my experience it's the kids of police chiefs who get in more trouble than the rest because they know just how hard they can push! And I have a _lot_ of experience."  
  
"Tony, that's enough!" Steve barks and then winces. He drops back into his chair from where he's half-risen, teeth gritted.  
  
"Dad?" Peter says, voice rising.  
  
"I'm fine," Steve breathes.

"I'll get an ice pack," Peter says and hurries to the fridge to dig one up. When he comes back, Tony is stabbing the remaining spaghetti in his bowl, staring too intently at it while Steve watches on. Peter ignores him as he hands the icepack over to Steve.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Steve says, obviously putting an end to that thread of conversation. 

“Yeah, _anyway_ ,” Peter says, giving Tony a pointed look that he raises his eyebrows and hands to. “In conclusion, Gwen is amazing and Dad is an ass.”

Tony's eyes snap up, a frown pulling down the corners of his mouth, but Steve shifts, clearing his throat and some of the sharpness fades out of his expression. “Yeah,” he mutters, “guess that's been going on too long now to hope for much.”

Gwen _is_ amazing, and his dad will come around eventually, Peter knows it. For now, he's got both his dads and they're okay and he's going to be a superhero soon. Gwen wants to Skype later tonight, and, amazingly, his spaghetti is pretty good.

Then they finish dinner and Steve almost takes a header tripping on Peter's bag.

“Oh, man,” Peter mutters guiltily as Tony ducks under Steve's arm, his hand curling around to hover protectively over his dad's bruised hip. “I...meant to put that away. Really, I did.”

“Steve? Steve, hey, you okay?”

“I'm fine, Tony,” Steve says, even though he's wincing and leaning into him, his leg bent at the knee so he's not putting any weight on it. He looks up through his bangs and meets Peter's eyes. He doesn't seem mad, but Peter flinches, feeling about two inches tall.

Peter points his thumb over his shoulder. “Um. Bag goes in my room?” he says meekly.

“Please and thank you,” Steve says and it's punctuated by a glare from Tony that just, _really_ drives the point home. It's amazing how guilty they can make him feel with a couple looks. Steve's not even actively _trying._

Peter scoops up his bag and his shoes, mumbling, “Sorry. I'm really sorry, Dad,” before darting for his room.

“Next time just see they get there when you get home, huh?” Steve calls after him.

“Did I mention I'm really sorry?” Peter yells back and tosses his bag on the bed, flopping down next to it with a groan.

“I did tell you, sir,” JARVIS says and Peter pulls his pillow over his head.

“Shut up, JARVIS.”

He lays there for a few minutes feeling crummy and entertaining bitter thoughts like _that's why they won't let you train, idiot_ and _Captain America Killed by His Own Son,_ _Pepper'd love that. She thinks Tony's hard to handle, ha._

He has to do better, or even having the powers won't make them let him be an Avenger. He's worrying at his lip with his teeth when he hears a voice too high to be either of his dads.

“AUNTIE!” he shouts and throws himself off the bed, pounding out into the living room. Aunt Natasha is there, hair pulled back in a ponytail, face free of make-up.

“ _Peter,”_ she warns, holding out a hand and makes a slight twitchy movement, like she's going to duck behind Tony, but Peter doesn't slow down. He closes the distance between them and scoops her up, grinning, arms wrapped tight around her knees and she lets out a cut-off shriek as he spins her around, her fingers digging into his shoulders. When a laugh bubbles out of her throat he lets her down.

“Hey, Aunt Nat.” Natasha smiles as he kisses her cheek and Peter just smirks when he catches Tony rolling his eyes. He's just jealous because she likes him best.

“How was your field trip?” she asks and Peter freezes. Her eyes narrow a fraction. Crap, he's going to have to deflect. He forces himself not to rub the Band-Aids.

“It was fine,” he says and she hums thoughtfully.

“Fine, huh? Weeks of non-stop chatter about it and it was 'fine'?”

Peter feels himself blush. God, how does she do that? “Yeah, I mean, you know,” he mumbles, glancing at his dads. Thankfully they seem absorbed in each other. Natasha follows his gaze and makes another considering noise. She doesn't press, but Peter knows she's just postponing the interrogation. She'll corner him later. Having super-spies for family is terrible sometimes.

“Did Clint find you for dinner?” Steve asks, craning his neck to look at her over the back of the couch. “He left just before we started.”

“He did,” Natasha says, nodding. “Darcy's helping get him ready for bed.”

Tony wrinkles his nose and tilts his head. “Did you drug him, Nat? Right up to the gills?”

Aunt Nat ignores him, instead reaching to stroke Steve's cheek with her thumb. “And how are you feeling?”

Steve smiles and tilts his face into her hand. “Doesn't feel good, but I'm all right, thanks for asking.”

Natasha nods and turns her gaze to Peter, speculative gaze lingering. She doesn't ask, but Peter knows that's what the look's for. He shifts under her scrutiny and says, “So, um, we can still go to the ballet Monday, right?”

“Barring any Avengers-related fiascoes, yes,” she says. “Make sure your homework is done.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “My homework is _always_ done.”

“That's impossible,” Tony says, pointing the remote at him. “It can't _always_ be done, because it's not done when they give it to you. Or until you do it. Or in alternate universes where—”

“It'll be done,” Peter says, raising his voice to drown out his dad.

“Good boy,” Natasha says and cups his face with her hand before leaning up to kiss his cheek. “You're getting tall.”

Peter shoots a smug grin at Tony who huffs and mutters something under his breath. “The Captain in me's starting to show, I guess.”

“All right, I won't keep you. I just wanted to make sure you were doing all right, Steve. Good night, boys. Get well quick, Steve.”

“Lickety split,” he says and Natasha rolls her eyes.

Peter sticks his hand in his pocket and finds his phone, which reminds him—Gwen. When he pulls it out there's an alert and a message preview that says _WHERE YOU AT, BOO?_ He grins, calling an absent-minded, “Later!” after Natasha as she boards the elevator. He'll figure out something else he can tell her Monday. It's tough to lie to them, but not impossible. They made the mistake of teaching him how to evade. He shouldn't have to lie for too long anyway. Maybe by Monday he'll be super already. He grins to himself at the thought.

Tony twists around where he's sitting cross-legged on the floor, poking at the video player. “You gonna stick around for a movie, Bambi?”

Peter huffs. “So I can try to ignore you and Dad having a life-affirming make-out session? No, thanks.”

That's actually probably not going to happen, 'cause Dad's already slumping down into the cushions, heavy-lidded, but Tony shrugs and says, “Your loss.”

Peter leans over the back of the couch and hooks his arm around Steve's neck, giving him a gentle squeeze. “Night, Dad, love you.”

He smiles and curls his hand around Peter's arm. “Sleep well, Peter.”

Before he can extricate himself, Tony's bounced up and joined them. He grabs Peter's head in both hands and smacks a big wet one, right on his cheek.

“Ugh, gross, Dad,” Peter whines, rubbing at it.

Tony just grins. “Night, Punkin'.”

Peter tries his best to retreat to his room like he's not in a hurry; he doesn't want to hurt their feelings, but Gwen's waiting for him!

By the time he's nearly made it to his door he can hear the low murmur of his dads' voices and the soft sounds of kissing. He makes a break for it. They'll never miss him anyhow.

~

Natasha greets Clint and Darcy with the usual chaste kisses and Darcy tips her head back onto the back of the couch to watch her as she moves into the kitchen. It's been a long day and Natasha is looking forward to a drink.

Their relationship is what most people consider complicated. Natasha thinks it's simple really. The three of them are in love, and Clint and Darcy enjoy having sex. She doesn't. There's not much complicated about that, but if anyone knows how foolish people can be, it's her.

“How's he doing?” Natasha asks, reaching into the freezer for her stash.

Her mouth twitches in amusement when Clint replies, “He's _super._ ”

Darcy smirks and Natasha takes a moment to admire the long, exposed curve of her throat. She may not care for sex, but she has eyes and Darcy is stunning. “Not bitching anymore,” Darcy says. “Drugs have kicked in.”

“I love drugs,” Clint contributes fervently.

Darcy pats his chest. “I know you do, babe.”

Natasha drinks the vodka and fixes herself a smoothie—a habit she's picked up from Tony, much to her chagrin—then returns to the couch to curl up opposite Darcy, lifting Clint's feet into her lap. He smiles dopily at her. “Nat! Na-tat-tat. Nnnaaat.”

“Hi,” she says. Darcy's smile has gone brittle and Natasha leans over to tuck an escaped lock of hair behind her ear.

Darcy glances at her, a little reluctant, and then says quietly, “I thought he was okay? Usually he doesn't need the strong stuff when you say he's okay.”

“He's fine, I promise,” Natasha says, with all the seriousness Darcy deserves from her.

“'m totally fine,” Clint agrees and clumsily strokes Darcy's face. She huffs, but the strained lines fade from her face.

Clint wiggles, twisting his head in Darcy's lap as he gets more comfortable, and gives a few slow blinks. He'll be out like a light soon, which is the main reason he's taken the painkillers anyway. A good night's sleep will make a world of difference. “Hey,” he says, drowsily, “y'saw Steve? He look okay to you?”

Natasha considers. “He seemed tired, but relaxed.”

“Hmm,” Clint murmurs, eyes drooping closed. “Okay.”

Darcy runs her fingers through his hair and he sighs. “Did something happen on the mission?” she asks.

“Sorta.”

“We should really put you to bed,” Darcy says, amused.

“Ugh. Moving,” Clint replies. Then he frowns. “What about Pete? D'you talk to him?”

“Just for a few minutes.”

“He seem weird to you?”

“He's always weird,” Darcy mutters and Clint pokes her (unintentionally) in the breast.

“ _Than usual_ ,” Clint says. “In a shifty kind of way. He was acting squirrelly when I's over there this afternoon.”

The three of them have talked about children of their own before, but Darcy's never really wanted them and Clint's cripplingly afraid of fatherhood. Since she's not part of the baby-making process, Natasha doesn't feel like she has any ownership of that particular part of their relationship, and she doesn't want children badly enough to ask for them. So Peter is the closest thing they have. Which makes him the topic of far too many of their conversations.

“He did seem squirrelly,” Natasha agrees with a wry smile. “We didn't talk long. He clearly didn't want his fathers to notice my interest. I'll probe again Monday.”

Clint hums, a considering sort of noise. “He asked me to take him out again.”

Natasha sighs. “Again?”

“Yuuup.”

“That's starting to become a thing,” Darcy says, wrinkling her nose. “Steve and Tony will freak if they find out.”

“They know he wants to do it,” Clint says, sounding annoyed. “He's told them only a gazillion times. If they'd just let him go out once or twice we could bank that fire. One of these days—”

Natasha squeezes his ankle. “You know why they won't.”

Clint sighs gustily. “We don't have superpowers.  _Tony_ doesn't have superpowers. It's just—dumb. 's really dumb. Kid's gonna snap and do something crazy. 'm telling you, one stake-out 's all it would take to convince 'm it's not as fun-times 's he thinks.”

“We'll talk to them about it again. In the end it's up to them, though.”

“Idiots,” Clint mumbles affectionately.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GO LOOK AT THE ILLUSTRATION BY ZEEEWA ON TUMBLR: GO, GO LOOK AT IT: http://zeeewa.tumblr.com/post/83579640087/musicalluna-zeeewa-for-musicalluna
> 
> *clutches it, crying*

Sunday morning, Steve wakes up by increments. The first thing he registers is the slow, steady throb of the stitches across his forehead. He's a little stiff overall and his hip aches, though not nearly as bad as yesterday. The bed shifts under him and after a minute more of drifting between asleep and awake, he pries his eyes open.

Tony cocks his head and smiles down at him, props his chin on the heel of his hand. “Mornin', sunshine.”

The shades are easing back, morning light coloring Tony's skin gold. Steve's responding smile is inevitable, like the sun coming up, breaking from somewhere deep inside him. “Morning,” he murmurs, curling his fingers around Tony's wrist. “You watching me sleep?”

A smirk flashes across Tony's face. Steve likes how he can see all the hues of his eyes in this light. “Nope. Figured you'd wake up around now. You usually sleep late after a rough mission.”

Steve frowns even as Tony's eyes move to his forehead. “What time is it?”

“Nine,” Tony informs him casually.

“Nine?” Steve groans and starts to push himself up, ignoring the way it makes his temples throb. “I meant to be up hours ago, Tony. JARVIS—”

“I canceled your wake up.” Tony sits up, swinging his legs around so he can sit Indian style, his hand pressing down on Steve's shoulder. “Fifty-three stitches, Steve, not to mention the hip. You didn't think you were going for a run, did you?”

Steve sighs and lets Tony push him back down, covering his eyes with one hand. He hates missing his run.

“How's your head?” Tony asks after a long silence stretches between them.

The corner of Steve's mouth twitches. “It's throbbing,” he tells Tony honestly. “Feels hot,” he says, waving his hand over his forehead. “Itches.”

“Good. Means it's healing, doesn't it?”

Again, Tony moves, this time scooching so his hip fits into the curve of Steve's side, the heavy band of his jeans poking into soft skin. Then he sets one hand down on Steve's other side and leans over him.

Steve opens his eyes and sees Tony's braced his other arm against the headboard. “That looks awkward,” he says.

“It's not terribly comfortable,” Tony agrees. “And if I stay this way for long, my back's going to give me hell. The view's pretty great though.”

A grin fights to break across Steve's face and he brushes his hand up Tony's side, enjoying the way it makes a faint shiver ripple through him.

Tony dips his head and Steve lets his eyes fall closed as Tony lays careful kisses at either end of the line of stitches before pulling his arm away from the headboard and drawing his fingers through Steve's hair. Steve reaches up to curl a hand around the back of Tony's neck when he finally kisses his mouth, warm and slick and familiar.

When they part, Tony suggests, “Coffee, hm? Coffee and breakfast?”

Steve gives him a one-shouldered shrug and tips his head to the side, smiling. “I dunno, this is working okay for me.”

Then his stomach growls, loud and insistent, and Tony falls back, laughing.

Steve's managed to prop himself up on his elbows without wincing too much by the time Tony rolls off the bed and says, “All right, Captain Garbage Disposal. Let's get you something to dispose of before you waste away before my very eyes.”

Tony helps him sit and then waits, a warm presence at Steve's knee, while the pounding in his head fades. His hand rests around the back of Steve's neck, blunt fingers toying with the short hairs there. “JARVIS?”

“I have already put the coffee on, sir,” JARVIS replies. “I took the liberty of having DUM-E prepare several stacks of waffles and there were no incidents to speak of.”

“Thank you, JARVIS,” Steve says fervently because now he's starving at the prospect of food and just the faint scent of coffee seeping in under the door is making his mouth water.

“Certainly, sir,” JARVIS says, amused.

“Peter?” Tony queries, providing his arm so Steve can lever his way to his feet.

“Still sleeping,” JARVIS reports. “He retired to bed at 1:52 AM, so it is likely he will sleep into the afternoon, as usual.”

“On the phone with Gwen?” Tony says and hangs on to Steve's hand as he takes the first few hobbling steps, his hip stiff and aching. It fades with each stride and by the time they make it to the end of the bed, Steve can walk without support, not that that makes him let go of Tony's hand.

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS confirms. “Video chat.”

Tony waves Steve off when they get out into the penthouse common area. “Go sit, I'll bring the chow.”

So Steve does and Tony joins him after a couple of loud minutes in the kitchen, carrying a tray stacked with waffles, a bottle of syrup, a stick of butter, and a battered box of powdered sugar with a bowl of carelessly thrown together fruit. There are also two mugs of coffee and Steve gets a hold of his as soon as it's within reach, taking a gulp and savoring the way it sears his throat on the way down.

The morning is lazy and perfect. Tony stuffs Steve full of waffles and sprawls on his lap with a StarkPad after retrieving an ice pack for his hip. Steve watches Saturday morning cartoons, Tony complaining good-naturedly whenever Steve laughs, jostling Tony's head in the process. “I'm trying to be brilliant here,” he says, “you're like a human earthquake,” and Steve shushes him so he can hear Bugs Bunny take a pot-shot at Daffy. Then he cracks up, throwing his head back as he laughs.

Tony gives up about the fiftieth time this happens and growls, dropping the StarkPad on the floor before turning over onto his stomach and settling in while he complains. “Cartoons, honestly,” he says, like they haven't been doing this for the last fifteen years. Like Tony wasn't the one who programmed these line-ups for Steve. “How old are you?”

“Looney Tunes is hilarious,” Steve points out for what might honestly be the millionth time. Mickey Mouse comes on and, don't get him wrong, he loves Mickey, but Tony's driving him crazy, shifting and twitching around and over Steve's thighs, so Steve stops him wriggling and kisses him. They neck for almost half an hour before Tony pulls back and drags Steve's hands out from under his shirt, obviously cursing himself as he does it.

“What's wrong?” Steve asks and Tony sits back on Steve's knees, his own knees bookending Steve's hips.

He pushes a hand through his hair and sighs. “Okay, look, Steve, ah...” He sighs again and meets Steve's eyes. “Clint gave me some more of the details about what happened in Cleveland—about some orders you gave—ow, hey, okay, ease up.”

Steve realizes he's holding on to Tony's knee, digging his fingers in, and releases his grip with a flash of guilt. “Tony,” he starts, but he has no idea what he wants to say.

Tony starts talking in a rush. “Look, what I'm saying is you're clearly compartmentalizing. Which is fine! Coping mechanism, yadda yadda, whatever, I totally get it, you know I do. I mean, hello, PTSD central, here. And I know it's at least in part because, you know, you're trying to protect me—which, adorable, by the way—and Peter, sickeningly sweet on that count, my god, you really are the perfect father; and that's one of many reasons I love you, but you don't have to. Be happy, I mean.” He winces a little bit and Steve glances down to check that it's not him, his heart doing strange, lurching things in his chest. He can't tell if it's fear or affection causing it. Maybe both. Tony sighs again and plucks at the material of Steve's shirt, over his stomach. “Not that I don't love when you are, which's why I feel like a bastard bringing it up, but— It's okay to be sad, or upset, or both, or angry or whatever. Let it rip. I'm Iron Man, I can take it.”

“Tony,” Steve says and his voice comes out hoarse, his throat catching around the word.

“Come on,” Tony wheedles, quiet and uncommonly earnest. “You put up with all my bullshit, Steve. The yelling and the squatting in the lab for days and the truckload of crippling insecurities, not to mention my vast and, in Fury's words, 'frankly terrifying' level of paranoia. The drinking. The emotional constipation. My general inability to take care of myself for extended periods of time. My reckless streak. You can stop me any time,” he jokes feebly and Steve draws him closer, a pang of anxiety cutting through him.

“Tony, that's not—”

Tony doesn't let him seize the distraction though, he peeks up at him from under his eyelashes and gives a little shrug, his mouth pulling into a tiny smile that wrecks Steve. “Hey, it's fine. We've got complementary PTSD manifestations. We lucked out.”

Lucky doesn't even begin to cover it, Steve thinks and leans forward to put his forehead to Tony's chest, arms curling around his waist. He's quiet for a long time and Tony toys with Steve's hair, waiting patiently, until the words finally push themselves out of Steve's mouth.

“Clint added three new names to his list because of orders I gave. Three men died and I put that on Clint's conscience. I made the call, but he's the one who had to pull the trigger. What the hell gives me the right to do that?” he asks at last, intending to leave it there, but Tony keeps looking at him, dark-eyed and sympathetic, his full and unwavering attention fixed on Steve instead of a machine part or a StarkPad or a thousand and one other things, and Steve's nearly chokes on the words suddenly fighting to get out of him. He runs through the full spectrum of emotions Tony cited and then through a few more, ranting and lamenting into the warm pocket between their bodies till he feels wrung out.

When the words finally dry up, Tony squeezes his shoulders and says quietly, “See. Still right here.”

Steve lets out an exhausted, slightly congested laugh. “Forehead smarts,” he replies.

Tony hisses. “I bet. Head up. Let me see.”

Steve lifts his head away from Tony's shoulder carefully, wincing at the way the stitches throb, tendrils of pain curling around the inside of his skull, pricking deeper.

“Yeah, the doc would not be stoked by how those look. Bruce would pitch a fit. I'm gonna get the rub and the pills; JARVIS, time?”

“One twenty-two, sir.”

Steve blinks around at the sunny living room and says, “Wow, really?” He scrubs a hand over his eyes and winces as that accidentally pulls on his wound.

“Yes, sir.”

“You hungry?” Tony asks, looking him over, and then waves his hand without waiting for a response. “What am I saying, of course you're hungry. Don't move, I'll get us something.” He pats Steve's thigh and adds, “Lemme up, honey.”

Steve releases him and Tony clambers off, glancing toward Peter's bedroom. “He still sleeping, JARVIS?” he asks, dutifully piling food on a plate once he's reached the kitchen, along with the antiseptic ointment, before bringing it back to Steve. He himself chugs down a pre-made shake. “If he's not up soon our plans are gonna be shot.”

“He is still sleeping, sir,” JARVIS confirms as Tony kneels on the cushions, squeezing a liberal amount of antiseptic onto his fingers. “Would you like me to wake him?”

“Nah, not yet,” Tony says, dropping his gaze from Steve's forehead where he's applying ointment and giving Steve a look heavy with implication. “Give us another hour or so.”

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS agrees, even as Steve points a carrot stick at Tony and says firmly, “No.”

“You don't even know what I—”

“Of course I know what you, Tony,” Steve says, biting the end off the carrot. “I'm eating.”

“You can multitask,” Tony purrs, looking at him from beneath lowered eyelashes.

Steve laughs and says again, firm, “No, Tony. Let me eat in peace.”

Eventually, Tony does, in fact, relent and allow him to eat, but by that time the idea is solidly planted in Steve's mind and he can't focus on the food anymore.

“Dammit, Tony,” he says and Tony grins, delighted, as Steve pins him to the couch.

“Mm, yeah, Steve,” he breathes, the cheeky ass, and Steve is in the middle of thoroughly kissing him, his t-shirt starting to make him feel overheated, when JARVIS murmurs, “I'm sorry to interrupt, but—” And then he cuts himself off.

Tony breaks away and squirms under Steve—not helpful at all—saying, “But what, JARVIS, what the hell.”

“I think,” JARVIS says, a little hesitant, “perhaps Peter may be oversleeping because he is unwell.”

Both Steve and Tony go still for a second and then Steve sees Tony frown at the same time he does. Steve glances at his watch; Tony calls, “Time?”

“Two after three, sir,” JARVIS replies and Steve's watch confirms it. He shares a look with Tony.

“Why do you say that, JARVIS?” Steve asks, easing back onto his knees as Tony pulls out from under him into a sitting position, his eyes turning toward Peter's door.

“He appears to have a fever,” JARVIS replies and then adds quickly: “A low fever. Approximately 99.8 degrees Fahrenheit.”

“You think he really caught something?” Steve asks and he's already moving to his feet, headed for Peter's room.

Tony shrugs. “It happens. His immune system's better than most, but that doesn't mean he can't get sick.”

Steve pauses at the door, folding his arms around himself. “Should I wake him up?”

Tony's gaze goes distant as he does some mental calculations. “He's been asleep for twelve hours now. Theoretically, that should be enough, even for a teenager. Could be his body's trying to fight the infection. Give him another hour,” he suggests at last.

Steve's not thrilled about that advice. He grimaces and then takes the last few steps in haste, slipping the door open so he can peek inside. It's dark as night and Steve's eyes take a moment to adjust before he can find the lump on the bed that is Peter.

“Relax, Steve. I'm sure he's fine,” Tony calls.

But the easy intimacy of the morning is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Warnings:** Mentions and discussion of PTSD and coping mechanisms, disgusting fluff.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter!

“Peter. ...Peter. Hey, kiddo, can you hear me? ….Peter?”

Peter groans and drags a pillow over his head. “Dad, 's too early, go'way,” he says.

There's a brief silence and Peter starts to drift off again. Then he feels a hand on his elbow. His other dad says, slowly, “Peter, it's five PM.”

Peter's brow furrows because that makes no sense. He can't have been out for more than a few minutes. He's still so tired.

“ _Peter_ ,” Tony says, his voice sharp with worry and Peter can't ignore that. He tries to open his eyes, to wake up; it's like trying to pull himself out of a thick, dark quagmire; it sucks him back down if he lets up at all.

He finally gets his eyes open and nearly loses what he's gained when he blinks and the darkness creeps over him again. _Why'm I so tired?_ A little jolt of fear gives him the push he needs to open them fully. Tony's head is poking over the edge of the bed, his hand on Peter's elbow. His hair's absolutely nuts, standing on end in every direction. The bed shifts at Peter's hip and he forces his eyes up. Steve looks back at him, naked concern on his face. “Hey there,” he says.

“Hey, Dad,” Peter rasps and he wants to turn and sit up so he can look at both of them properly, but his limbs feel like they're made of cement.

“How are you feeling?” Steve asks.

“Tired,” Peter mumbles; it's too much effort for more. “'S really five o'clock?”

“It really is,” Tony says and now that Peter's paying attention, his body's lodging other complaints. “Just tired?”

“H've to pee,” he says and Tony snorts. “Feel heavy.”

“You okay to get up?” Steve says, curling a helpful hand around his bicep, his blue eyes watchful. The skin between the stitches on his forehead is already starting to look smoother and pinker.

“Kinda stiff,” Peter says and then adds, “but I _really_ have to pee.” He gets a pair of chuckles that are half-hearted at best. Steve helps him get upright and Tony stands up and back, shoving his hands in his pockets. Peter really just wants to flop back down and go back to sleep, but he swings his legs out and Steve stands with him, not touching, but watching like he's channeling Uncle Clint. “See,” Peter says when he's on his feet. “I'm good.” And he does feel a little better, like he's sloughing off the fatigue.

“Mhm,” Tony says skeptically. “You need a hand in there, Bambi?”

“Ew, no, absolutely not. That is the _last_ thing I need, Dad,” Peter tells him, shuddering.

He can feel their gazes on him all the way to the bathroom.

As he relieves himself Peter's heart starts to pound sluggishly. This must mean the bite is working. He's tired because his body's trying to cope with what's happening. 

He has to tell Scabel.

When he emerges and shuffles into the living room they're both there, but they're trying too hard to look casual and Peter's pretty sure they were loitering outside the bathroom until about two seconds ago.

“Hungry?” Tony says, chipper.

“Yeah,” Peter says, surprised to find he's _starving._ He's barely gotten his butt in a chair when Steve puts a plate down in front of him. “Uh, wow. Thanks, Dad. Are we adding instant food prep to your list of heroic abilities?”

“I was making dinner before we decided to wake you up, wise guy,” Steve replies, giving him a look. “Eat.” Peter tosses him a lazy salute even though he knows it drives Steve crazy; it's a bad habit he picked up from Tony and he feels a little bad when his dad scowls. He gets to work on the plate to make it up to him.

He's already swallowed three or four bites when he realizes that neither of his dads is eating themselves. Tony's got his hip against the counter, absently drying dishes as Steve hands them to him, but they're both watching him like he's going to burst into flames any second.

“What?” he says and reaches up to touch his face. “Am I growing mandibles or something?”

“No,” is Tony's immediate volley. “There were just a few torturous minutes earlier when you looked like you were dead and we couldn't get you to wake up, that's all.”

Steve's hands tighten around a bowl he's washing and it shatters. He swears and snaps, “Don't move!” at Tony, who's barefoot.

Amazingly, Dad does as he's told and stays put.

“Your freaked us out, kiddo. Maybe just hold off on the smartass comments for a bit, huh?” he says, eyes serious, as Steve digs the dustpan out from the cabinet under the sink and Peter immediately feels terrible. It's not often that Tony's the one telling him to watch his mouth.

He chokes down the bite he's just taken and it settles sour in his belly. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

Steve stops, letting his head drop, and sighs. He puts the dustpan and brush down and covers his face for a second before standing, his expression twisted. “Peter, no. That's not—we know that's how you cope when you're nervous and I'm sorry.” He shrugs helplessly. “Maybe I'm tense.” Tony shifts, starting to move toward him and Steve throws a glare over his shoulder. “I told you not to move.”

Tony holds his hands up, eyebrows popping toward his hairline. “Oo-kay. Not moving. Nope. Staying right where I am.”

“But—I'm a teenager. That's normal, right? Teenagers sleep all day all the time! It's our biological imperative!”

Tony's shoulders creep toward his ears, hands waving wildly. “Well, yeah, but it doesn't normally take five minutes to wake you up after you sleep for eighteen hours! What if you contracted mono from that Stacy kid?”

“ _Dad!”_

“Tony! _”_

It occurs to Tony then who he's talking to and he flusters, shuffles his feet and— “ _Fuck!_ OW!”

The change snaps over Steve's face so fast Peter is sure he's blinked. "Hold _still,"_ Captain Rogers orders. "Don't move," and then he lifts Tony, as if he weighs as much as Peter—less even, and puts him on the counter. 

"Steve," Tony complains, pulling his foot up on his knee to check it out. "Dial it back. I'm fine. Aside from being distracted by our son's sordid personal life, I mean." 

But he's hissing with pain as he prods at it and there's probably blood.

“It's not _mono_ , oh my god, Dad,” Peter says. The fact that he's still tired doesn't mean he has _mono_.

"Just. Stay—there," Cap says. Peter hears: _Stay where I put you._ Then Steve sighs and his dad is back, weary and put-upon. “Finish your dinner, Peter.”

Peter's not really hungry anymore, but he tries anyway.

“Don't think I need stitches,” Tony says, poking at the bottom of his foot and making faces while Steve finishes cleaning up the bowl shards.

“I'll be the judge of that.”

Tony huffs. “I have had my share of injuries, you know. I am capable of assessing a wound. I do worse than this in the lab all the time. Not to mention, you know, crime fighting and saving the world.”

Steve puts the dustpan back under the sink and looks up at him as he pulls out the first aid kit. “Just be quiet and let me take care of it, Tony,” he snaps and Peter's eyebrows go up along with Tony's. Dad gets stern with them all the time, but he never snaps.

“Okay,” Tony says slowly, “you've been on edge since yesterday. This definitely isn't about Pete, or the bowl, or the sass, or the _minor_ explosion from earlier, which means it's gotta be job-related.” He gives Dad an assessing look and then says, careful, “Does this have anything to do with Cleveland?”

Peter waits for Steve's reaction, but he's silent and Peter can't get a read off of his broad back as he stands, favoring his bruised hip. Dad must see something in his face though, because his expression softens.

“Hey,” he says, voice gentle, “hey, hey, come here.”

Steve sets the first aid kit on the counter at Tony's hip and stands just out of reach, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes deliberately fixed on the fridge. “What, Tony.”

“I said _here_ ,” Tony says and leans forward to hook two fingers in his belt, then pulls Steve forward until he's standing between his knees.

“Tony,” Steve says, his arms are still crossed but looser, his eyes darting reluctantly to Tony's face. Peter tries to focus on his dinner, but it's really not that appetizing anymore now that it's cold. He pokes at his noodles.

Tony's shoulders hop in a little shrug and he says casually, “You trust me right?”

Steve just gives him a look. “Against my better judgment.”

“And that's probably your worst lapse in judgment, in what, ever? So tell me what's still bugging you.”

His dad's quiet so long that Peter doesn't think he's going to answer when he finally bursts, “Clint specifically pulled you aside to tell you about the orders I gave—I made the wrong call and you're my second in command so of course he'd go to you if my judgment was compromised—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, _no_. Steve. What? No. He told me about the orders because he was worried you were going to do _this._ He told me you did what you had to do, _because you always do,_ but that it involved eliminating some guys who wouldn't play nice and you take it personally every time and you let it eat at you, exactly like you're doing _right now_. Gotta say, he's got you pegged.”

“I don't always do the right thing, Tony,” Steve says quietly, eyes on his hands resting on Tony's knees.

Tony gives him a look. “What did Clint and Bruce tell you?”

“That I made the right call,” Steve mutters.

“Well, there you go then. That's three people you trust telling you you're being an idiot.”

“You're being an idiot, Dad,” Peter puts in, for good measure, and his dads glance over at him, Tony catching his eye and smiling.

“Make that four people you trust,” he amends and gives Steve a chastising look. “So knock it off. Idiocy doesn't look good on you.”

Steve huffs in reluctant amusement and he nods; Tony smiles, then they're kissing and ew.

“Gross, guys, seriously? I have to eat here in the future.”

Tony flips him off, pulls Steve closer, and Peter groans.

“ _Really?”_

He turns around and tries to tune them out after that. After a minute or so, Tony says, a little breathless—ew ew ew no _why_ — “This is what a healthy relationship looks like, kiddo. Soak it in.”

“You guys are seriously the _worst,”_ Peter grumbles.

“Your dad's right,” Steve says and he sounds a lot happier, which isn't horrible, or it wouldn't be if it weren't for _kissing_.

Peter feels a little nauseated. “I'm going to throw up,” he announces.

His dads just laugh. Jerks.

~

Even though he goes to bed around ten, Peter again struggles to wake up Monday morning. Almost nineteen hours out of the last twenty-four and he's still tired!

It's gotta be related to the bite.

The area around it is a little red and patchy looking. He covers it up with a fresh Band-Aid and then slings his bag over his shoulder. Thank God JARVIS isn't allowed to monitor his room all the time.

“How are you feeling this morning, Sir?” JARVIS asks as he heads out into the living room and Peter shrugs, answering honestly, “Still really tired, but okay.”

“Still tired, huh?” Steve says. He's sitting at the kitchen bar eating oatmeal. “Have you been having nightmares again?”

Peter grimaces and moves to the fridge to get some juice and a thing of yogurt. His nightmares were because he was a little kid. He's older now and can handle this stuff. Even if he  _were_ having them, he probably wouldn't tell his dads. It would just give them one more reason why he's not able to pull his weight. “No, Dad,” he says, “no nightmares. I'm fine, really.”

“All right, all right,” Steve says, hands raised in surrender. He wipes his mouth and gets up to put his bowl and mug in the sink, leaning over to kiss Peter's head as he chooses a banana from the fruit bowl.

“Gross, Dad,” he complains, waving the banana at him.

Steve ignores him. “I'm going to HQ. I've got to do a TV interview this afternoon with your dad, so we'll probably be home late. Go by Bruce and Betty's for dinner.”

“You just want them to check me out,” Peter accuses. “I'm on to you!”

Steve just grins at him and waves. “Have a good day, Peter!”

School is torturous as usual, with the added bonus of being ready to fall asleep any second. He nods off in History, which gets him in trouble with Mister Richter, and then Flash corners him near the gym before lunch and he's too tired to even bother standing up to him. He's cranky and an off-the-cuff comment gets him a bloody lip, which is just great. His dads are going to have fits.

“What is going on with you today?” Gwen asks at lunch, dabbing at it with an ice cube wrapped in a paper towel.

He winces as a yawn cracks open the coagulating cut _yet again_. “I dunno, I'm just tired. Guess I didn't sleep too well.”

He hopes this lethargy won't last too long, they've got an exam in Richter's class next week and History is his worst subject.

An hour and a half later he falls asleep in Biology.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ack, sorry sorry, kind of late tonight, I got distracted.

Steve is sitting in a make-up chair next to Tony in a studio downtown when his phone starts blaring the alarm klaxxon set for Peter's school number.

Tony looks up from his tablet and frowns.

“Excuse me, I have to get this,” Steve says and the make-up artist nods.

“Just hail me when you're ready.”

Tony doesn't bother sending his guy away. “Hello?” Steve says, careful not to let the phone touch his skin.

“ _Captain Rogers, hello, this is Nurse Mahler with Midtown High School? Peter seems to be feeling unwell, are you available to come pick him up?_ ”

“Ah, no,” Steve says, frowning. “What do you mean he's feeling unwell?”

To his left, Tony leans forward, spine stiffening.

“ _He fell asleep during his sixth period class and his teacher was unable to wake him.”_

“What?” Steve demands and Tony waves his hands, finally shooing away his own make-up artist.

“What is it what happened?” he hisses.

“ _It's all right, sir, we were able to rouse him with smelling salts and he's awake now, though he does seem very groggy. You may want to take him to see his primary care physician. I can call Mister Stark—”_

“No, he's here with me,” Steve says, and then to Tony: “Peter fell asleep in class. They had to use salts to wake him up.”

Tony's mouth drops open.

“You can call Happy, he should be available to pick Peter up—” Steve starts, but Tony waves him off.

“Happy's with Pepper this afternoon, Darcy was gonna pick him up on her way home. He had yearbook.”

“Shit,” Steve says, and then blushes when he realizes what he's said and to whom. “Sorry. I'm sorry. We're just trying to figure out who's available.”

“ _Don't worry, Captain,”_ the nurse says, sounding amused.

“Bruce,” Tony says, tapping away at the tablet. “I'm messaging him now, I think he's in the lab today. He can probably pick Peter up and check him out, too.” His fingers hesitate and Tony looks up. “You think he's really sick?”

“Do you think he's trying to get out of school?” Steve replies, and Tony snorts.

“Right, well Bruce can figure it out. He says that's fine.”

“Great,” Steve says, relieved. “Tell him thank you. Nurse Mahler? Peter's uncle Bruce will be able to pick him up.”

“ _This is the same Bruce listed in Peter's file under 'Doctor Bruce Banner'?”_

“Yes,” Steve confirms.

“ _Okay. Peter's resting in the clinic now, tell Doctor Banner there's no rush, we'll take care of him until he arrives.”_

“Thank you.”

“Mono,”Tony says when Steve hangs up. “I'm telling you it's that Stacy kid.”

“Wouldn't she have had to have, I don't know, been sick, Tony?”

“She could be a carrier, Captain Smartass,” Tony shoots back.

“They're going to end up seeing each other,” Steve says, waving his hand to get the attention of the make-up artists. “You're going to have to get used to the idea at some point, Tony.”

“Like hell,” he mutters.

~

Bruce is pleased to have been asked. It's silly, maybe, but he and Betty had agreed early on that they would take steps to avoid bringing her into contact with his bodily fluids, since they know for sure his blood is dangerous. Betty's not fully convinced his semen is, too, but she's never protested the precautions Bruce takes. It means they'll never have children.

He's torn between gratitude and sorrow, because he'd like children, he would. But he's glad he'll never have to find out if he'd have followed in the footsteps of his own father.

It bothers him sometimes that he can't give Betty that, that he can't give her everything she wants, but he's not stupid either and he knows Betty picked him, fought tooth and nail to be with him. It makes him sickeningly grateful.

Anyway, Peter is the son they'll never have, and he's happy to have the chance to take part in some of the domestics.

“Hi,” he says, once he's inside the school office, eyes sliding around the room, cataloging what he sees. “Bruce Banner? I'm here to pick up Peter.”

The man sitting at the desk points at a clipboard sitting on the counter between them. “Fill out the sign out form. I need to see your ID and—” He pulls out a StarkPad. “—I'll need a palm scan.”

Bruce hands over his ID, which the man scrutinizes very carefully, checking it under a UV light and then spending several long seconds comparing Bruce's face to the photo printed on it, and then the signature to the one he leaves on the form as well. The tablet scans his palm and the man examines that, too. Steve and Tony will be happy to know that their safety measures are being so thoroughly employed.

“Okay, Doctor Banner, just one more thing. Complete the pass phrase, please: Triceratops eat ice cream for lunch.”

“And heaps of bacon for dinner.”

He makes a check on the form Bruce filled out and then says, “Right this way.”

Peter is lying on one of the thin paper-covered beds in the nurses' clinic. He looks mostly asleep. It's amazing how quickly he's grown.

Bruce puts a gentle hand on his side and Peter's eyes flutter open a little. “Peter? Hey, it's Bruce. Your dads sent me to come take you home.”

Peter mumbles and shifts, frowning. “Really?”

“Really. How are you feeling?”

“Fine, I'm just—” He yawns. “—really tired.”

“I see that,” Bruce says, amused. “Come on, let's get you home and into bed. We'll see if we can head your dads' wild imaginations off before they're convinced you've got bubonic plague.”

Peter snorts, exactly the way Tony does. “Twenty bucks says it's too late.”

~

Uncle Bruce is a lot less fussy than his dads would be, and Peter's glad about that. He really is tired and it's exhausting when his dads get all protective and overbearing. His aunts and uncles say it's because Peter's their only kid, but that doesn't make it any less annoying.

Bruce shepherds him up to bed and does a quick, basic exam. Peter makes sure to offer his offer his right hand instead of his spider-bitten left when he takes his pulse. He takes a swab from Peter's mouth and says, “No signs of inflammation or discharge anywhere, but I'll run this and see if I find anything. Did you actually sleep last night?”

Peter thinks they'll want to keep poking if he says he did, so he grimaces and lies through his teeth, “Uh. Maybe not as much as I should have?”

Bruce huffs, wryly amused, and says, “Okay, Mini-Tony. Get some rest.”

Peter has a vague recollection of Tony sitting on the edge of his bed sometime later, muttering, “We should ground you for this, you little cretin.”

Peter dreams about standing between his dads and a multi-limbed menace.

~

Later that night, Tony's only just closed his eyes when JARVIS murmurs, “Sir.”

His eyes pop open. “Peter?”

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS replies and there's something like worry in the modulation of his voice that catapults Tony out of bed. Steve doesn't move, heedless of the noise and the movement, his body trained to sleep and sleep good when given the opportunity.

The tile floors are cool against Tony's bare feet, which slap noisily as he runs for Peter's bedroom.

He throws open the door and finds the lights up—thank you, JARVIS—and Peter leaning over the side of his bed. Puke drips sluggishly down the sheets to a puddle on the floor. “Eugh,” Tony says and Peter lets out a strangled sort of laugh before he gags and heaves again.

Well, it's probably not mono.

“Steve!” he yells, knowing that will be enough, and crawls up the bed behind Peter, puts his hand right in the middle of the kid's bony back. He's warm even through the material of his t-shirt. So much for Bruce's sleep-deprivation theory.

“Lookin' good, kiddo,” he says and Peter groans, the sound vibrating against Tony's palm.

“What happened?” comes Steve's voice, breathless. Pure fear reaction. The serum makes it nearly impossible for him to fatigue like that, especially not in the fifty feet or so between here and their bedroom.

“Looks like Bambi's definitely caught a bug,” Tony says and Steve wipes a hand over his mouth. “Keep a lid on it, Cap, he's all right, aren't you, buddy?”

The noise he gets from Peter in response is a moan-whimper type thing that makes his gut twist. Tony knows _this_ brand of misery all too well. “Think you're about spent?” he asks, gentler.

“Think so,” Peter mutters and spits weakly, grimacing.

“Okay, we're gonna get you up outta this mess and get you set up in the bathroom so you can have some cool porcelain to cling to. JARVIS, send in the 'bots to take care of this. And send Bruce up, will you?”

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS replies.

“All right,” Tony says decisively. “Let's get you out of this fabulously vomit-adorned shirt.” He hooks his hands under Peter's arms and drags him upright, which actually takes some serious effort, the kid may be skinny, but he's not handling his own weight at the moment. He's floppy and loose-limbed and he sinks back against Tony's chest as soon as he moves his hands, his head lolling back on Tony's shoulder.

A groan seeps out of his chest and Tony recognizes the sound for the _omg-going-to-puke_ warning sign it is. “Yeah, all right, I know, buddy. Shallow breaths, swallow. Just keep it under control for another second.” He tugs Peter's shirt up and pulls it off. “You're lucky I have a lot of experience with vomit,” he informs him cheerfully and Peter makes a noise of disgust. The muscles in his torso make a distinctive upward motion and Tony pushes Peter forward so when he retches, what he brings up goes on the floor and not on their persons. He rubs the heel of his hand along Peter's spine in long, circular motions, waiting the spasms out. When the puking finally stops, Peter hangs in Tony's grip, panting and shivering. Tony draws him back, subdued, and says, “Hey, Steve, you wanna do the honors?”

Steve doesn't say anything, but the bed sinks under his weight a second later. Tony helps turn Peter onto his back and then Steve slips his arms under his knees and around his back, picks him up like he's still five-years-old. Steve draws him close to his chest, presses his lips to the crown of Peter's head and Peter leans into him, wraps his hand around the fabric of his t-shirt. Tony can't resist touching both of them, brushing back Peter's hair and squeezing Steve's shoulder.

No one says a word, but he and Steve head straight for their bathroom, Tony pausing to haul the comforter off of their bed before darting in ahead of Steve to dump it next to the toilet. He's spent his fair share of nights hugging the toilet bowl, so he knows it's better with something soft and warm to curl up in between puking jags.

“Dad— Dad— Put me down—” Peter chokes and Steve just about drops him to get him to the floor as fast as he can. Peter drags himself over the bowl and as he starts heaving, Tony sees Steve's abs clench sympathetically.

“Hand me a washcloth, Tony? Damp,” Steve says quietly, crouching and putting a hand on Peter's lower back. Tony digs a washcloth out of one of the drawers by the sink and wets it, all without ever looking away from them. Watching Steve take care of Peter has never failed to short out his lungs. It's bittersweet; this sharp lance of pain that strikes him when he wonders why his father didn't do—why he wasn't important enough—but then it's this _balloon,_ expanded to bursting inside him, so damn grateful that even if he can't, Steve makes sure Peter gets everything he never did.

He holds the dripping washcloth out, still staring, and Steve shoots him a look from under his brows—pure exasperation—and wrings it out over the tub. By now Peter's bowed over the seat, breathing like he's just run a marathon, spitting weakly and clumsily every so often. Steve puts the rag to the back of Peter's neck and Peter groans softly, bending forward until his forehead's resting against the back, his eyes closed. Steve wipes along the sides of his face and then lays the washcloth across the back of Peter's neck and draws his fingers through Peter's hair, peering at his face, ever watchful. “Doin' okay, pal?”

“Okay's I can be,” Peter mumbles, his voice echoing up out of the toilet bowl. “This sucks.”

“Blows, actually,” Tony says automatically. “Blows chunks, if we're going to be specific, and of course we should be, that's only scientific.”

Peter groans and turns his head enough that he can glare up at Tony through one eye. “You did not. You did not just.”

Tony pulls one hand from the crook of his elbow so he can wave it around. “What, it's apropos.”

Steve crouches down to press the back of one hand to Peter's forehead, shifting it to Peter's temple after a moment.

“His temperature has been hovering at 100.4 degrees, Captain,” JARVIS informs them.

Steve nods in acknowledgment, but his hand stays on Peter's head a beat longer. He once explained to Tony it was something his mother had done when he was sick as a kid. “All right,” he says at last. “You're going to need liquids.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:** Lots of puking.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter.

After tailing Steve to the kitchen and helping him bring back an absurd amount of liquids—seriously, there is no way Peter is going to drink two different flavors of Gatorade, a bottle of ginger ale, a glass of water, _and_ a Tetra Pak of pineapple-coconut water—plus a box of crackers, Tony leans against the door jamb to watch while Steve tries (and fails) to not fuss.

"Call if you need anything," he says and Peter gives him a long-suffering look.

"Okay, Dad. I'm fine. Really."

"C'mon, Rogers," Tony says, because the energy from jumping out of bed has officially abandoned him and he is _beat._ Harvey's expecting him at eight AM because he's a damn sadist and after that he's expected in Lab Four to check on a new polymer they've supposedly developed that's waterproof, but membrane-thin. Which is probably bullshit, he thinks, because that lab is not known for making incredible discoveries, but, eh, it's worth checking out at least. Every once in a blue moon they don't totally suck at what they do, which is why he keeps them around.

His brain focuses on the here and now again when Steve hesitates an arm's length away.

Oh no, they're getting out of here. Now.

Tony reaches forward and snags the band of Steve's sweats, yanking it out and letting it snap back into place. He gets a dirty look for it, which he ignores, and says, "Come on, Steve, he's okay, you heard him. And if he somehow manages to keel over, despite JARVIS' monitoring, and your creepy asleep-but-watching-you shtick, I'll ground him for eternity and...make him join the football team or something, okay?"

"Oh my god," Peter moans and catches Steve's eye. That makes Steve smile, which is something anyway. "Go, before Dad's whining makes this headache worse, please."

Steve's hand stops dead en route to Tony's hip and he turns back, mouth opening, but Tony grabs hold of his arm and snaps, "Oh, for God's sake, bed, now, or...or else! I don't know what else right now because I am _clinging_ to coherency, but else! Lots of else!"

"But Tony—"

"ELSE."

This time it's Steve with the long-suffering in the form of a sigh, but he settles and says, "Peter, if you need anything, don't hesitate to call. Even if you think we're asleep—Tony, get your hands off of my ass, I'm _coming."_

"Probably not tonight," Tony snarks in return and shoves him out the door. He waits until Steve is walking toward the bed, shooting dark looks at him over his shoulder before he ducks his head back in the bathroom. Peter's chuckling and moaning in equal measures and it makes Tony feel soft and warm in the middle. "Love you, Pete," he says. "Feel better, all right?"

Peter wiggles his hand free of the comforter to give the most pathetic thumbs-up Tony's ever seen. "You got it, Pops."

Tony narrows his eyes. "Don't call me that."

Peter just laughs him out of the bathroom. Tony feels a sense of vindication when it breaks off mid-way for another round of puking, which is probably both immature and grossly unfatherly, but a little flu-bug never hurt anybody.

"God, I'm tired," he says, and flops down face first on the bed.

Steve turns the light out, even though JARVIS could do it just as easily, and then turns and runs his fingers through Tony's hair, planting a lingering kiss on the back of his neck. It makes Tony tingle from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. "You've been pushing it lately."

"I slept, like, five whole hours last night!" Tony whines. Steve lets out a huff of laughter that billows heat up into his scalp and down his spine, makes him shiver.

"And how many the night before that? Three?"

“Two,” Tony grumbles and hooks his foot around Steve's ankle, dragging himself closer. The combined power of Steve's heat and scent works like a drug and he feels drowsier than ever, his whole body growing loose and heavy as he drapes his arm over Steve's waist.

“You know you can't rack up sleep debt the way you used to,” Steve says and Tony barely registers the words, spoken as they are against his temple.

He grunts. "Had a gold freakin' apple jus' like everybody else. Maybe the ones we got were faulty."

Steve chuckles. "Please don't ever tell Thor that when I'm around."

That doesn't require a response, so Tony doesn't bother, letting the feeling of Steve's chest rising and falling against his cheek slowly pull him closer and closer to the brink of sleep. The gold apples had been sort of a wedding present from Thor in the sense that it had enabled them to _have_ a wedding, because by extending Tony's life (and the other Avengers') Thor had given Steve the chance to let himself want something he'd been too afraid to consider. So if it weren't for Thor, they may have never gotten here. Tony he shifts his arm, snuggling closer to Steve by tugging at his hip and Steve sucks in a breath.

Tony blinks and lifts his head, pulling his hand away. “Shit, sorry, Steve,” he slurs.

"I'm fine, Tony, go to sleep," Steve murmurs in return and starts drawing lazy circles on Tony's back with his knuckles.

Tony's head sinks back down of it's own volition and he manages to mumble, “Love you."

Then he's down for the count.

~

For a long time, Steve doesn't sleep. He keeps one hand busy tracing patterns over the muscles of Tony's back, watching the lights of the city shift over the ceiling while he listens to Peter shuffle around between bouts of throwing up.

When he was younger, Peter used to take up residence in his and Tony's laps when he felt under the weather. Steve smiles remembering the first time Peter caught the flu when he was five. “ _You just let me know if you need to throw up, all right, buddy?”_ Tony had said. Peter had agreed and then immediately lost his lunch right down Tony's front without saying a word.

Tony had been in one of his favorite t-shirts at the time and snapped, “ _God_ damn _it, Peter!”_

Steve's sharp, “ _Tony!”_ was utterly unnecessary because the second Peter's tiny face screwed up, tears bubbling from beneath his eyelids, it was obvious Tony had caught his mistake, his expression turning stricken.

“ _Shit, shit, sorry, Peter, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, buddy, I didn't mean to yell._ ” Peter was wholly unmoved by the apologies, reaching for Steve, each wail rising in volume. “ _No, wait_ —” Tony protested, pleading, when Steve hooked his hands under Peter's arms and lifted him out of Tony's lap. “ _Steve—”_

“ _It's okay, shh. Daddy's not mad,”_ Steve assured Peter and started stripping him out of his ruined shirt. “ _Get out of those clothes,”_ he told Tony, brushing the tears from Peter's cheeks with his thumbs. Tony complied without a word. Steve rubbed Peter's back, laying kisses in his hair while Tony pushed out of his jeans. “ _Just leave them there,_ ” Steve told Tony when he bent to gather up the clothes and Tony swallowed and straightened back up, rubbing at his nose and failing to stifle a sniffle.

Steve rose, hefting Peter onto his hip, little over-heated arms looped around his neck and his face turned into Steve's neck. Tony shriveled up when Steve stepped toward him.

Ignoring that, despite the pang it caused him, Steve murmured into Peter's temple, “ _Can you look at Daddy?”_

Very reluctantly, Peter peeked up at him, his chest still hitching a little with every breath, face flushed with crying and fever.

“ _Not me, pal; Tony. He wants to say something to you, okay?”_

It took a moment, but Peter finally looked at Tony, his tiny fingers gripping Steve's shirt tighter.

“ _Tony,”_ Steve said, catching his eye.

Tony glanced at him, dropping his eyes when his chin trembled. He took a shaky, hitching breath, the sheen in his eyes growing even more pronounced when he met Peter's gaze. “ _I'm sorry, Peter,”_ he croaked. He blinked and one tear slid free, streaking down his cheek to disappear in his goatee as he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “ _Daddy's so sorry,”_ he whispered. “ _He shouldn't have yelled.”_

Peter sniffed, his head turning toward Tony as his grip on Steve's shirt loosened, his eyes focused on the wetness Tony wiped jerkily from his cheek. He pressed one fist to his mouth and then said softly, “ _It's okay, Daddy. Don't cry.”_

Tony choked out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob and Peter reached out for him. When Steve handed him over, Tony pulled Peter tight to his chest, letting out a whaling breath. “ _I'm so sorry, Peter. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”_

“ _It's okay, Daddy,”_ Peter mumbled, wrapping his arms tight around Tony's neck. “ _Sorry I threw up on you.”_

“ _Don't be,”_ Tony said immediately. “ _It's not your fault. You didn't do it on purpose. Daddy overreacted.”_

“ _I love you, Daddy,”_ Peter whispered and the noise Tony had made had nearly broken Steve's heart.

“ _I love you, Peter. I love you so, so much.”_

After that Steve had shepherded them to the bathroom and into the shower to clean up. Tony's always tender with Peter, but following that particular incident he'd been even more indulgent, letting Peter curl up in his lap for nearly three days straight, despite repeats of the throwing up incident, despite his aching back, and despite the unbearable heat of Peter's skin. When Peter had finally fallen asleep that first night, Steve had kissed Tony until some of the misery melted from his expression. “ _You did what you needed to,”_ he'd said.

“ _I fucked up.”_

“ _Not for the first time and not for the last.”_

“ _You're gonna stick around? Call me on it?”_

“ _I plan to,”_ Steve said and smiled.

And so far he thinks he's kept that promise. Tony's repaid the favor more than a few times when Steve pushes too hard and expects too much of Peter. It's been a constant struggle to find a balance, but they keep trying.

Steve realizes Peter's been quiet for a while and his eyes move toward the bathroom. The light's still on. “JARVIS?” he whispers and Tony snuffles, nuzzles into his shoulder. His mouth hangs open and Steve knows there will be a wet spot before long.

“He's fallen asleep, Sir,” JARVIS replies softly. “You would do well to follow his example.”

Steve huffs. “I'm trying.”  
  
“Try harder, Sir,” JARVIS advises.

The room darkens gradually as the shades lower, whirring quietly, and Steve smiles because JARVIS can mother with the best of them. Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes and relishes the quiet that's settled over the apartment, drifting with the images of his latest drawings.

~

Steve wakes suddenly and fully, heart beating hard against the wall of his chest. To the left he can hear a soft rustling, the sound of someone trying to step silently. Tony's head is pillowed on Steve's stomach and he's curled up on his side facing the headboard, the blue light of the reactor effectively blinding Steve.

Moving with great care, he gets his hand around Tony's bicep, ready to fling him clear of danger if that's possible. But the footsteps are moving away, out toward—

And at last Steve realizes: _Peter._

He breathes, tension draining away, and as he releases Tony's arm, he lifts his head to check he hasn't woken him. He hasn't.

Steve lets his head fall back, lifting one hand to rest against his forehead as he breathes through the ebbing adrenaline rush. He winces as the stitches start to throb. “JARVIS,” he says and his voice is rough with sleep. “What time is it?”

“Five thirty-nine, sir.”

Steve sighs and closes his eyes again. It's barely been four hours. “Peter?”

“Watching TV, sir.”

_He must be feeling better,_ Steve thinks, and lets sleep claim him again.

_ ~ _

Peter's slumped on the couch, swaddled in his dads' comforter watching an infomercial for knives through a haze of exhaustion when he hears the door open behind him. He pushes upright, despite the effort that costs him and tips his head back to look over the couch back. It's Tony.

“Hi, dad.”

Tony looks up from the tie he's securing around his neck and smiles, says, “Hey, kiddo. How you feeling?”

Peter shrugs because he's not throwing up, but he's worn out just from sitting up to look over the back of the couch, so. It's all relative. “Okay,” he says. “Where are you going?”

Tony sighs and heads into the kitchen, where he digs a nutritional shake out of the fridge before coming out into the living room to lean on the couch back. “Got a meeting with Harvey. Been trying to get together for months, but our schedules are always conflicting.” He takes a sip of the shake and then reaches over to feel Peter's face. His hands are cold and they feel good on Peter's overheated skin.

“D'you even know what you're looking for when you do that?” Peter mumbles.

Tony gives him a look of mock surprise. “Wait, you mean I'm supposed to have an ulterior motive? I thought it was just an excuse to touch your pretty face.”

Peter snorts and lets his eyes drift back toward the TV.

“Well, now,” Tony says, “They're still selling knives that cut through drywall?”

“And wood, according to this infomercial, but I'm pretty sure they're using balsa.”

Tony lets out a bark of laughter and then leans forward, catching Peter's head with his hand and planting a kiss on the crown. “Anything you need before I go, Bambi?”

Peter shakes his head. “Nah, I'm all right, Dad. Thanks.”

“No problem. See you in a couple hours.” He kisses Peter again and then he's gone.

Realizing that if his dad's heading to work, Doctor S is probably up, too, Peter paws around in the blankets until he finds his phone.

_ Hey, Doc,  _ he texts,  _I'm showing definite signs of symptoms. Severe fatigue set in sometime Sunday morning and at 0100 this morning I started vomiting. Sounds like Phase 1 to me._

He takes a look at the Band-Aids covering the bites on his left hand and ignores the urge to scratch it. The redness and swelling has started to creep out from underneath. None of the research mentioned a rash around the bite, but then, all the animals the Doc tested had fur.

_ I think I'm having a reaction around the bites, too. I've got a rash. Did you ever see that on the test animals? _


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter.

Clint had crawled into Natasha's bed at two-thirty, waking her instantly.

“Problem?” she'd murmured, reserving eye-opening for confirmed trouble.

“Probably not. Pete's sick.”

“Very?”

She felt the mattress shift as he shrugged. “Nah. Flu's my guess.”

“Mm,” she had murmured, drawing her pillow close again. “Get out.”

Clint had huffed a laugh and slipped out the way he'd come.

The next afternoon between training and a meeting with Coulson, Natasha seeks out a snack and information.

She finds both within moments of one another. A bagel is obtained in the kitchen and when she steps onto the elevator with it a few moments later to ride to the penthouse, Gwen Stacy is standing at the back, clutching an enormous book to her chest.

Natasha reflexively smothers a smile when her eyes round as she steps into the car. “Good morning, Miss Stacy,” Natasha says, inclining her head.

“Um,” Gwen says, and then flushes prettily in a way that reminds her too much of Steve. Natasha turns her face to hide her smile. “H-hi, Ms. Romanova. It's— it's nice to see you again.”

Natasha is charmed because Gwen means it, despite how obviously intimidated she is. Her reward is a genuine smile. “Going to see Peter?” she asks.

Gwen nods, looking mystified. “Yes. We've got this  _ massive _ World History exam on Thursday, so unless he's got the plague, we've got a ton of studying to do. We're both miserable history students,” she confides leaning in. The confession pleases Natasha. Peter doesn't have many friends, but Gwen seems to more than make up for that.

“Well, I happen to be pretty stellar at history. It was helpful when I was a spy. Still is sometimes,” Natasha tells her. “I could help?”

Gwen looks surprised, her mouth dropping open a little. “I— Yes, that would—that would be great. We need all the help we can get.”

They arrive at the penthouse and Natasha lets Gwen get off first. She steps out behind her just in time to see Peter trip over the trailing end of a blanket he has clutched around his shoulders and nearly fall on his face.

“Oh my god, Peter!” Gwen exclaims and drops her books, lunging forward to catch him.

“I meant to do that,” Peter breathes and straightens up with her help. “Hi. I'm glad you—”

Natasha sees him catch sight of her and his face floods with color.

“Aunt Nat!” he says, “I didn't—hi—what are you—hi?”

Interesting. Maybe Gwen is the reason he's been acting so odd lately. She smiles. “Hi.”

_ ~ _

Harvey raked him over the coals for one pointless little lawsuit and the guys in Lab Four were more idiotic than usual,and to top it all off, the cuts on his foot are throbbing furiously after the abuse of spending the day running around, so Tony's utterly fed up with the day.

As a result, by the time he's reached the penthouse, Tony's shucked his jacket, tie, and vest, undone his belt, tugged his shirt out of his pants and unbuttoned it. That way, by the time he makes it to the bedroom it'll take twenty seconds, tops, to get into a t-shirt and jeans. He'll check on Peter and then go down to the lab and bang on something until he feels better.

He's not expecting Captain Stacy's daughter to walk into his living room five seconds after he does, craning her neck around Peter's wadded up comforter. He stops, staring, and she stops, eyes widening like she's been caught stealing the crown jewels. “Stacy,” he says, “what are you doing here?”

“Um,” she starts and her eyes dart to an already massive pile of blankets on the sofa, which lets out a groan.

“Dad, don't, _please.”_

Tony waves the armful of clothing he's holding and says, raising his voice, “What is she doing here, Peter?” On the other side of the couch, the Stacy kid's face starts to turn a vivid pink and she looks up at the ceiling. Tony realizes a second later that his unzipped slacks are starting to slide down his hips and grits his teeth, yanking them back up with one hand. He absolutely does _not_ blush, because that would imply he has a sense of _shame,_ which Tony hasn't had since he was...well, possibly since ever, but at least since he was fifteen, when he got caught in a disturbingly similar situation, i.e. pants falling down in front of a sixteen-year-old girl.

“Um, hi, Mister Stark, I'm sorry, I thought Peter told you I was coming over. We're supposed to watch Lord of the Flies and we just thought we'd watch it together and there's this history exam we have to study for? I didn't mean to intrude and accidentally see your underwear—”

“ _What?_ ” Peter says and the pile on the couch trembles, a tuft of hair popping up from somewhere in the middle. “Please tell me you're joking. _Dad!”_

“Well, maybe if I'd known we were going to have _guests!”_ Tony yells in return. “I should be able to walk around my own goddamn Tower in my underwear! Where the hell is your father anyway, shouldn't he be chaperoning you two?”

“Calm down, Tony, I've been here all afternoon,” Natasha says, emerging from the hall.

Barely a corner of Peter's face is showing, but it's enough for Tony to see his eyeroll. “Dad, you're the only one who thinks we need a chaperone.”

“Oh, no,” Gwen says, delivering the comforter and tucking it around the mass surrounding Peter already, “my dad does too.”

“Well, that's one thing Captain Stacy and I agree on,” Tony mutters.

Natasha gives him a look, crossing her arms over her chest. “Everything is fine here. Go put some clothes on. Now that you're home I can head out.”

Tony sneers and stalks past them to find his husband and get into a pair of pants he doesn't have to hold up because he really is not equipped to deal with this situation as is. “Keep your hands to yourselves,” he orders.

“But I'm so attractive right now!” Peter yells after him. “This could be my only chance!”

Steve's not in the bedroom, which is probably for the best, Tony feels a lot less cranky after he's gotten rid of the suit and put on some clothes that won't involve flashing his goods at the teenage girl who's got her talons around his kid's heart. He pauses in the doorway and watches as the Stacy kid slides a movie chip into the player, glancing back over her shoulder to smile and say something that makes Peter's blanket pile quiver with laughter.

Tony grimaces and runs his thumb over the casing of the arc reactor. He can admit he's being a little insane in the privacy of his own head. It's just—he promised he'd never let anything hurt Peter. It's a futile, impossible promise, he knows, god, does he ever know. But relationships, those are... He's not good at them, and if Peter gets attached to Stacy's kid...

A girl as good as all that is dangerous.

“Where's Steve?” Tony asks, moving over to the couch to press his hand to Peter's forehead.

Peter glares at him and squirms away from his hand. “He's in the studio.”

Tony glances at Gwen and she goes still, staring straight ahead at the TV like maybe if she doesn't move he can't see her. Tony rolls his eyes and says, “Watch your movie. Stacy, keep your mouth to yourself, your dad will have me brutally murdered if you catch whatever Pete's got.”

“Oh my god,” he hears her mutter, mortified, as he slips through the door into Steve's studio. He can feel Natasha's glower between his shoulder blades.

There's a half wall erected in the middle of the space, bare braces and struts facing them and Tony moves around it to have something to focus his gaze on as he drags his hands through his hair. He hasn't been in here in awhile and the sketch hung on the reverse is unfamiliar.

It's big enough to take up the majority of a real wall and it's still rough, in the early stages of planning and in a few places he can see the faint lines of figures Steve determined were ill-placed. However, he recognizes shorthand details indicating one of the solidly-placed figures is Thor, and another one in the corner, Natasha, across from her, Iron Man and the massive outline of Hulk. There's a smaller figure that seems to have moved all around the canvas without finding a home.

“What's this?” he demands and anyone else might be upset by his tone. Steve just moves up next to him, gaze assessing as he looks it over for probably the millionth time.

“Peter's birthday is coming up and I wanted to give him something special.” He rolls a small shrug off his shoulders and murmurs, “He wants to be part of the Avengers so much.”

Tony softens a little because that's just the thoughtful kind of thing Steve does best. Nothing like the outrageous shit he does, hoping something will hit the mark. “He's gonna love it.”

Steve nods and after another moment of assessment, he looks over. “You need to lay off Gwen.”

A scowl immediately sweeps over Tony's face. “She's turning him against us, Steve!”

Steve gives him a look that's equal parts sympathy and exasperation. “She's not turning him against us, Tony. If anyone's turning anybody, it's you.”

Tony's jaw clenches. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Steve sighs and steps forward, drawing Tony into his arms. “Think back, Tony. What did _you_ do when your parents didn't approve of something? ” Tony loathes that he makes a good point. Steve kisses his forehead and says, “Look, I know you're worried, but Peter is a smart kid. And Gwen is a nice girl. I really think you're blowing this out of proportion. But if you're _that_ concerned, we can sit them both down and talk to them about safe sex and—"

Tony shudders. “Oh _god_ , no. Talk about trauma. I need a drink, Christ.”

Steve, the asshole, chuckles the whole way to the door.

~

“Wow,” Gwen says in a low voice when the door shuts behind his dads, “He _really_ does not like me.”

Beside her, Peter sighs, slumped toward her in his burrito of blankets, and says, “He doesn't not like you. Dad's just...” He looks up at her from near her shoulder, gray-skinned and exhausted. “He has trust issues.” Then he cuts his eyes toward her and says, just a _little_ resentful, “I'm surprised _Steve_ didn't tell you all about it, since you guys are best friends now.”

A sharp, short laugh bursts out of Gwen and she twists on the couch to face him, saying gleefully, “Oh my god, are you _jealous?_ ”

“Don't blaspheme,” Peter mutters, sullen. “Isn't it bad enough one of them doesn't like you?”

“I thought you said he didn't not like me.” She refuses to be diverted and pushes Peter's shoulder, says, delighted, “You're totally jealous. Peter, he's like, three times my age. And that's not even counting the seventy years he spent frozen. I mean, I have eyes, he's flawless, but—”

“Please, stop, _I'm begging you_. How did this conversation even happen?” Peter moans and brings the blanket up to cover his head.

Gwen leans toward Peter and pries the blanket back, taking pity on him, and puts a finger on his nose. “It's okay. I'm pretty sure your dad thinks I'm going to ravish his baby boy and then break his heart and that's too sweet to be upset about.”

Peter grimaces. “I'm fif _teen_ , I'm more grown up than he is half the time. I'd like the chance to develop my own trust issues.”

They're quiet for a few minutes, watching the previews. He's blinking a little sleepily at the people running around on screen when Gwen says quietly, “So is he worried for nothing or is something going on here, Peter?”

It takes a minute for him to parse out what she's saying, then he feels a wave of heat rush into his cheeks. “Um. I mean—is that—do you—?”

Gwen huffs and rolls her eyes. “I held your blanket while you threw up, Peter. If I had some neon I'd make you a sign.”

“Oh. Um. Yeah. I—there's something—”

Behind them the studio door swings open.

Tony shoots a dark look in their direction, his eyes narrowing when he sees Peter's likely bright red face, and starts muttering to himself. Steve follows in his wake.

“Are you ready for this?” Gwen asks, waving to the screen where the movie's starting.

“God, no,” Peter says and flops down again, the crown of his head pressing into her arm. “I mean, 'gosh, no',” he revises a second later, throwing a half-hearted glance toward the kitchen. Gwen smothers a giggle behind her hand and glances back, too. They seem to be occupied now, engrossed in a conversation. Tony's sitting on one of the counters, gesticulating enthusiastically and Steve's leaning against the counter, listening intently to whatever he's saying, too low for them to make out more than the low hum of his tone. They're obviously best friends, buddies, and it's totally unlike the soft, romantic thing her parents have got going on, not that there's anything wrong with soft and romantic. Gwen just wants something different. Something more like what Peter's dads share, and she's hoping maybe she can have it with Peter.

“I don't think he heard you,” she whispers.

“I heard,” Steve replies, glancing their way with a slow, warm smile, and Peter gives her a _see what did I tell you_ look.

“Enhanced hearing,” he says by way of explanation.

“So don't even think about creeping off to make-out. We'll know,” Peter's other dad says and Peter covers his face with his hands, groaning.

“Like you don't have JARVIS watching our every move, geez, dad. Even if we _were_ going to make-out, I'm sick. That's gross.”

“He's right,” Gwen says, nodding. “I saw what he ate for breakfast and not _before_ he ate it. Kind of a mood-killer,” she tells him in a stage-whisper. Because Gwen may be afraid of him, but that just tends to make her extra cheeky. She talks when she's feeling panicky, okay?

The comment makes the other dad's mouth twitch, violently, in a direction that suggests he's battling a smile, but Gwen's not about to let that get her hopes up.

“Are you going to stay for dinner, Gwen?” Steve asks and she blinks. She's never been asked to do that before. She can''t help the way she automatically looks to Mister Stark to gauge his reaction. He's pretending not to have heard. “Um, I'll call my mom and see? Thank you for asking.”

Steve smiles. “It's about time we had you over. Tony and I are going to go downstairs for a little while, you kids be good, all right?”

Gwen is surprised, but Mister Stark doesn't say anything, though it does look like it's paining him not to.

“Call your mother, Gwen,” Steve instructs, and then he shepherds Tony out.

“Wow, dinner!” Gwen says, squeezing Peter's arm.

“Ugh, don't talk about food,” he moans.

Gwen holds out a Gatorade bottle. “Speaking of.” She shakes it in his face. “You need to hydrate.”

“Ugh,” Peter says, but he snakes a hand out to take the bottle.

“Whoa,” Gwen says, her eyes catching on his wrist and she grabs onto it. “You're all splotchy, Peter, is that normal?”

Peter shrugs because the blotches of red climbing from the bites on his hand to his elbow itch a little, but that's all. Who knows what's normal. “I dunno,” he lies. “It's probably just a fever rash.” He's so ready to be superpowered already.

Gwen hmms at him dubiously, but she releases his arm and lets him drink. “You should tell your dads.”

“Sure,” Peter tells her, “when they get back.”


	9. Chapter 9

Clint staggers into the kitchen of the level he, Natasha, and Darcy share the next morning and drags his sorry ass over to the counter where their coffee pot lives.

He brews a batch and is standing there gulping the scalding hot liquid right out of the carafe when Darcy and Natasha come through the door, groggy-looking, but dressed for the day.

“Clint!” Darcy wails, “how many times do I have to tell you to use a mug, you jerkface!”

He grimaces and points to the counter to his left. “I poured you a cup.”

Darcy shoots him a poisonous look and grudgingly retrieves the steaming mug. “That's not the point.”

“Okay,” he says, “I'm sorry.” He kisses her cheek and Darcy pokes him in the gut. Ow. Her fingers are _sharp._

“Just use a cup, Birdbrain.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he replies dutifully and makes a face at Tasha, who's smirking at him knowingly. “How'd Pete seem to you yesterday?” he asks.

“I think you're right,” Natasha says, accepting a cup of yogurt and a spoon from Darcy. “It looks like he's got the flu. More importantly, I think I know what it is he's trying to hide.”

“Oh?” Clint says and Darcy perks up in interest.

“Gwen was over yesterday,” Nat reports and Clint slouches back into the counter, huffing.

“He has the _worst_ crush on her,” Darcy says and then she freezes. “Wait. Do you think they're dating?!”

Natasha licks yogurt off her spoon. “Not yet, no. I give it maybe two weeks, tops, though.”

Clint's eyebrows go up. “First official girlfriend, wow. Tony's gonna lose his shit.”

Tasha grins, her eyes glinting with amusement. “You should have seen him yesterday. He threw a fit because he thought they were there alone.”

Clint's eyes roll so hard it feels like they're going to fall out of his head. “Didn't he pop his cherry at like  _twelve?_ ”

“That's what he'd like you to think,” Natasha says and shakes her head. “I think that's _why_ he's so damn uptight about it.”

“No wonder Pete's squirrelly,” Clint marvels.

Darcy does a little dance in her chair. “Bambi's gonna have a  _girlfriend!”_

Clint chuckles, but any response he has is cut off by a klaxxon from his phone.

“Captain Rogers is requesting permission to open a channel,” JARVIS reports.

“Go ahead,” Natasha says and starts making quick work of the rest of the yogurt.

Clint's kissing Darcy again, squeezing her arm because he never responds to a call to assemble without burning a part of her into his memory, when Steve says, “ _Morning, guys. We've got trouble in the park. Wheels up in five.”_

“Ten-four, Cap,” he replies and slips the coffee carafe into the sink. “Love you, Darce.”

“I love you,” Natasha echoes. “Be safe today.”

“Come back in one piece!” Darcy hollers after them and Clint grins at Natasha. God, they are so fuckin' lucky.

~

“Un-be-fucking- _liev-_ able,” Tony pants as the assembly arms disengage the Iron Man helmet. Steve's inclined to agree with that assessment. He manages a small smile for the disgusted curl of Tony's lip as the assembly removes the shoulder and chest plates, revealing the thin layer of mucous it's covered in. “Are we sure this shit isn't poisonous?”

Bruce shrugs, smiling in spite of how low his eyelids are drooping. “Reasonably sure.” He can afford to be amused since he had clean clothes on site and the Hulk took the initiative to take a bath in the lake before changing back. He's the only one who doesn't look and smell like he's, well, been fighting giant frogs for the better part of the day. The only person luckier right now is Thor who is in Asgard to help with some sort of minor crisis.

Steve very pointedly does not think about how he is envious of that at this specific moment in time, especially since he's actually sure Thor would much prefer to have switched him places, while Steve probably wouldn't be any happier there, to be honest.

The five of them troop inside the penthouse from the landing platform.

“I fucking _hate_ Loki,” Clint snarls, dragging his hands through his hair and pulling a hand covered in translucent congealing goo away. It looks like snot and he gives his dangling fingers a dirty look, then surreptitiously eyes the people closest to him. Steve can see him consider and reject Bruce and look towards Natasha speculatively. “Goddamn giant goddamn _frogs,_ what the _fuck._ ”

“It could have been worse,” Natasha says, and turns when she somehow senses his falsely casual slide her direction. She ducks fluidly out of the way of his hand, shooting him a quelling look before moving out of his reach again.

“Ha!” Clint says in reply. He glances over at Tony, arm curling back behind his leg to hide it, but Steve catches his gaze and shakes his head. He sneers, a flash of insubordination, but Steve just holds steady and Clint gives in with a roll of his eyes, wiping his hand on his own leg. “Remind me to tell Thor that Loki owes us dry cleaning.”

“Good luck with that,” Tony calls. “Last time I demanded he pay for the damages he caused he sent me leprechaun gold. Only worse because it didn't just vanish, it took everything it was touching with it.”

Clint grunts in remembrance and bends over to tug his boot off. He starts to tip it over to empty it of the lake water it's no doubt full of, but Tony's, “Hey!” and Steve's “Clint!” stop him. He actually looks genuinely confused for a moment before he realizes what he was doing.

“Oh. Sorry.” He sets it on the ground upright, then removes the mate and sets it down as well. His socks squelch as he peels them off, then they're stuffed in the boots as well.

While the rest of them shake their heads, Bruce chuckles and yawns. “How long were we out anyway? Eight hours?”

“Almost ten,” Steve says and, yeah, he's feeling every one. He undoes the zip and shrugs out of the upper body armor, wincing as the sprain in his shoulder reminds him of its existence. He swings it around a few times to try and loosen it up, as well as testing his range of motion. Good enough, though a few days to rest wouldn't go amiss. It's been four days since Cleveland and his hip is pretty much healed, his forehead—relieved of the stitches just a day ago—is a little tender where the healing pink skin has been agitated by the cowl. He checks, but doesn't find any blood, which is good.

Tony finally steps free of the platform, fully unsuited and crosses over to the bar's fridge, digging out bottled drinks for all and, “Heads up!” tossing one to Clint and Natasha each. The last three he brings in his hands, lobbing one gently to Bruce when he's closer. It lands on the couch next to Bruce and goes unnoticed as the intended recipient is half asleep—if not more.

He tucks one under his arm as he comes to a stop next to Steve, twisting the cap off of the last with a snap and offering it—and a kiss. Steve accepts both, though he is not at all surprised when Tony keeps it closed-mouth and breaks it off almost immediately. Nose wrinkling, he declares, “Ugh. You stink.”

Steve gives him a small smirk and says, “Gee, thanks. You smell like roses yourself,” before tipping the bottle up. He has to force himself not to gulp it all down, deliciously cool and fresh and washing away the various and terrible tastes in his mouth.

He had, at one point, been kicked into the lake by one gigantic webbed foot and the water, while smelling better than the frog itself, hadn't tasted very good as he choked it back up and spit it out.

He catches a flash of Tony's wide grin at the remark, but when he looks again after half the bottle is gone, Tony's expression has gone somewhat slack, his eyes locked on Steve with an avid, hungry expression that has somehow not faded after fifteen years. It earns him an arched eyebrow and Tony jerks and then shakes himself more fully and, directing a mild glare Steve's way, turns toward the couch Bruce is on, dropping down next to the dozing scientist and waking him up again.

“Huh? Wha?” he says and twitches like he means to sit up abruptly. He doesn't quite make it and subsides almost immediately.

Tony snickers, but he opens the bottle of iced tea he'd almost sat on and offers it to Bruce.

“Oh. Thanks.” Bruce sips it, then his eyes open wider and he all but chugs it down after that.

“That trollop Gwen Stacy was in our house for the better part of _four hours_ yesterday,” Tony complains.

“You are an unbelievable whiner, Stark,” Clint says. “You should be thanking God on bended knee every night that he's into her.”

“Thank you, Clint,” Steve says, aiming a pointed look in Tony's direction.

“Oh, sure, because circus boy is really a good judge of the average teenage girl's motives!”

“Excuuuse me,” Clint snarks back, “I forgot how normal and well-adjusted you were as a teenager!”

Tony sinks sullenly into the couch, opening his own bottle and downing half of it in one go. He frowns then and says, “JARVIS, where is Peter anyway?”

“I thought he wasn't feeling well,” Clint says. Natasha frowns at the reminder.

“Yeah,” Tony says, “but it's just a little summer cold or something and besides, that has never stopped him from meeting us before. He'd crawl his way up here on three limbs if he broke his leg.”

Clint has to concede that with a nod as he drinks more of his own water.

Silence follows and Tony's not the only one frowning after a few moments.

“JARVIS?” Tony says, sitting up and forward, feet planting firmly on the floor and one hand bracing on the couch to push up.

Steve feels the worry start to build in his stomach at JARVIS' continued silence and everyone starts to tense up again, Clint's and Natasha's expressions clearing of emotion as they visibly shift back into combat mode, and Bruce blinking furiously and pushing himself out of the comfortable slump he'd sunk into.

Tony gets on his feet and strides across the floor toward the nearest tablet, left on the bar's counter in the rush out the door this morning. He picks it up and taps quickly, fingers dancing over the screen, then looks up expectantly.

JARVIS says, “Thank you, sir,” his modulated voice unusually tight and urgent.

“What happened?” Tony barks, but his fingers are already moving over the screen again.

“Peter overrode my ability to communicate with you about his condition during your outing.”

Steve's stomach drops like a stone. “What?” he asks as Clint says, “Wait, he can do that?”

Bruce looks unexpectedly guilty and Natasha casts a narrowed-eyed look his way, but now is not the time to worry about who taught him to do it—God knows he would have learned on his own eventually anyway.

Tony glances up and their eyes meet before breaking away again. “Why did he do that?” Steve says instead, then brushes it away with an impatient wave of his hand. “Never mind. Just... What _is_ his condition, JARVIS?”

“I have been trying to find a way around it for hours,” JARVIS says in explanation, then smoothly transitions to, “His condition has deteriorated considerably, I'm afraid,” in response to Steve's question.

“Where is he?” Tony says, the tablet hitting the counter again with a sharp snapping sound. It isn't broken, they're made to survive combat—or, more importantly, Avengers'—needs, but it punctuates his demand quite well.

“His bedroom, sir.”

“How bad?” Steve asks, voice clipped as a shivering current of fear cuts through the veil of weariness settling over him. He outpaces Tony in seconds.

“He has developed a rash covering a considerable amount of his visible skin. The irritation and his scratching of it has caused him to break the skin in several places. I tried to offer recommendations for relief, but he told me not to concern myself, to focus on assisting you, Sir,” JARVIS says apologetically. “I'm afraid I brought my enforced silence on myself,” he adds and Steve looks at one of the cameras in the ceiling.

“You did not,” Tony snorts, but Steve can hear the underlying tension in his tone.

“I convinced him to retreat to his room, hoping he would rest, but he was very insistent upon watching the news coverage of the battle and would not leave even to vomit, instead dragging a trashcan with him. I told him that if he would not take steps to preserve his health, I would involve you. _That_ was when he overrode my protocols.”

“But he didn't silence you completely,” Steve says, looking to Tony for confirmation and getting it in the shake of Tony's head.

“No, but he did restrict the security protocols that allow me to report anything that happens in this tower.”

“He's fucking grounded,” Tony mutters at that and Steve gives him a severe look.

“Tony—”

“No,” Tony says, whirling to jab a finger at Steve's chest. “He didn't pick and choose what JARVIS could and could not report, he just cut it all off. There could have been a fire or goddamn Doom breaking in here while we were off fighting those overgrown frogs and JARVIS wouldn't have been able to say a goddamn thing. I don't care how worried he is about us, that is _not_ okay.”

Steve can see how much that upsets Tony, hell, he feels the same way now that he understands, but if Peter is sick, especially if he's worse than he was before, yelling at him isn't going to help anything.

The five of them grow conspicuously silent as they arrive at Peter's door.

Tony had looked like he was just going to walk right through, like he's expecting Peter to be doing something illegal inside and doesn't want to give him time to hide it, but he stops suddenly when he reaches it and takes a breath, eyes closed. He's trying to push down the anger, to be reasonable if not patient, and Steve has a fleeting feeling of pride at how far he's come and sadness that he doesn't see it that way most of the time.

Then he knocks, three quick sharp cracks of his knuckle on the wood. He doesn't wait for an answer, though, before he pushes in. He stops earlier than Steve expected him to, creating something of a bottleneck that keeps everyone else back in the hallway, Clint craning a little to see past Bruce and Natasha, even though he's taller than her.

It's dark and stuffy inside and Steve's nose wrinkles automatically when confronted with the smell of stale vomit. “Peter?” he says, moving ahead of Tony.

Peter is propped up on half a dozen pillows when they step through the door and he blinks, sheepishness creeping over his expression. He looks washed out, skin the color of milk, except the dark rings around his eyes where it looks almost bruised. There's a red splotchy rash creeping up his cheek that's overtaken his neck and even from here Steve can see spots where Peter's scratched it bloody. His eyes dart over to Bruce who's moving toward the bed, cleaning his glasses on the hem of his shirt while he frowns. "Party in my room?" Peter says and Tony's expression blackens.

"You're fucking grounded."

Peter seems to sag into his blankets and he nods, mumbles, "That's fair."

Tony stiffens, eyes jumping to meet Steve's and his shock is plain. He'd expected an argument, a token protest at the very least. Steve crosses his arms and presses his fingers down around his mouth. _Don't jump to conclusions_ , he orders himself.

After a moment, Tony rallies and adds, “Two weeks. No visitation.”

“Mhm,” Peter says, and his eyes slide closed. “C'n I get a glass of water, please?”

Steve is peripherally aware of Natasha slipping out the door to grant his request, but the wide-eyed look he's getting from Tony seems to echo the tight anxiety clustering in his chest pretty well.

"Do you even get the issue here?" Tony demands.

Peter's eyes flutter open again. "I guess so."

"You _guess_ so? You jeopardized the lives of everyone in the goddamn Tower, Peter! You crippled JARVIS!"

Peter heaves a sigh. "Okay, I get it. I didn't want him to distract you when I was perfectly fine—"

"You are not 'perfectly fine'!" Tony snarls. "That's not up to you. You're fifteen-goddamn-years-old! Deciding what is and isn't perfectly fine is up to your father and I, and if you _ever_ compromise JARVIS again you can bet your ass I will revoke your lab privileges, don't think I won't."

"Tony," Steve cuts in, and it's not that he doesn't approve of Tony acting the disciplinarian, but—

He gets a scathing look for his trouble, but Tony presses his hands down over his eyes and grits, "We'll discuss this further later." Then he takes a slow, deep breath and drops his hands before he moves to the bed. He sinks down on the mattress next to Peter and says in a very carefully measured voice, "When did this start?"

Peter grimaces. "Um...I may or may not have first noticed it on Sunday?"

There's a beat of silence after his admission.

Clint is the first to break it. "Christ. Do _any_ of you three have a sense of self-preservation?"

"Yeah, because your record of acting in self-preservation is so pristine," Tony snaps back.

"Guys," Steve warns. Then he focuses his gaze on Peter, who shrinks into the blankets even further. "Why didn't you mention this sooner, Peter?"

"I don't know," Peter whines. "You guys were busy and I forgot! I didn't even notice it unless it was itchy! It's just a rash."

Tony snorts and Steve moves to join him on the bed, but he's stopped by Clint's hand around his wrist. "Ah, ah, ah."

Steve frowns and Clint pulls his hand away, directing a pointed look to the strings of slime that draw out between his hand and Steve's arm before breaking at last. "You're slimy," Clint adds, unnecessarily. When this earns him stares from Bruce, Tony, and Natasha he says, "What? If I can't pour out my boots, he shouldn't be allowed to sit on the bed! Fairness: it's a thing. Besides, do you really want to get this stuff in his bed when he's like this?"

"You have a point," Steve says, sighing.

He's resigned himself to merely standing close by when Peter's face twists and he says, "Why do you smell like—"

He makes an awful noise and Tony's eyes go wide. "TRASH CAN!" he barks, but unfortunately Natasha's reflexes are ever-so-slightly diminished after ten straight hours of being run ragged by gigantic frogs and it arrives just a second too late. Peter throws up right in Tony's lap.

"Eugh," he says and sighs. "So much for skipping the shower."

Peter moans and his shoulders hitch as he gags again. "Dad," he croaks, "I love you, but whatever you bathed in is—" And he chokes.

"Okay," Tony says, "Come on, Steve, get back, would you? That goes for you, too, Clint, Natasha. Shoo. Before I've taken a shower in vomit, all right?”

Steve does as directed, his movements translating to the others, ignoring the tiny pang of hurt at being asked to retreat when Peter looks like this and his instinct says to go and wrap him up, Peter's natural resistance to such things at his age notwithstanding.

The three of them step outside and Steve sighs, starts to pull off his gloves. A minute later Tony emerges as well and Clint chokes on a smothered burst of laughter. He's got the top blanket from Peter's bed slung between his legs and gathered up around his hips like an enormous diaper. "Shut up, Barton. Bruce says we might as well all go get cleaned up while he checks Peter out."

"There isn't much we can do for him now," Natasha says agreeably and nods.

“JARVIS, send Betty up, will you? Bruce looked about two seconds away from passing out on Peter's shoulder.”

“Certainly, sir,” JARVIS says and they head for the showers.

~

“When he feels better we're going to have to talk to him about what happened today,” Tony says, dropping the sheet by the door inside the bathroom and grimacing at his pants.

Tony has already peeled off his soiled clothes and climbed into the shower while Steve is still in the process of removing his uniform. He sighs. “We're going wrong somewhere if he thinks he needs to stop JARVIS from keeping us apprised to keep us safe. There's got to be something we can do that will make him feel better.”

“Short of going back in time and stopping ourselves from having him—”

“Don't even joke, Tony,” Steve says severely. His chest tightens like the start of an asthma attack at the very thought.

“Fuck,” Tony breathes, voice distorted by the water. He swipes it out of his face. “I didn't mean— I just wonder sometimes if we— If we were selfish, you know?”

Steve's stomach twists and he pauses in the removal of his uniform for a moment so he can lean on the counter and just breathe. “I know, Tony. Me too.”

JARVIS interrupts. “Pardon me, sir, but Miss Potts is on the line.”

“Who for, J?” Tony calls, blowing out a spray of water.

“You, sir,” he replies and Tony ducks out from under the stream, blinking.

“Yeah, okay, put her through.”

There's a brief pause and then Pepper's voice replaces JARVIS'. “Tony, I need you here, ten minutes ago,” she says, her voice drawn bow-string taut.

Tony's eyebrows go up. “We just got back from the debacle in Central Park, Pep, and a fifteen-year-old just threw up in my lap, can't it wait?”

“No, sorry,” Pepper replies and she sounds faintly apologetic, but determined. “There was an explosion at the plant in Bundaberg."

"What? Shit. JARVIS, deluge." Like a bucket of water has been tipped over, a rush of water splashes over Tony's head and he shakes it to clear the water from his eyes and squeegees his hands over his hair to keep more from replacing it. Steve almost hands him the towel hanging up, but reconsiders with a grimace when he sees his hands and is reminded of the reason he's supposed to be showering right now instead of sitting with his sick son. Instead he steps aside and lets Tony past to get his own towels.

Steve watches Tony whip a towel around his hips and grab a second to scrub his hair with. He feels a certain amount of trepidation as he takes Tony's place in the shower, knowing that an explosion at a plant is never a good thing, and wondering how much Tony will to have to be gone.

He's not ignorant of the cost this will have, in terms of human lives as much as other more material and business costs, but there is that tiny selfish part of him he keeps so carefully hidden that doesn't want his husband leaving while their son is sick, possibly seriously. He's not sure of the exact time conversion, so he can't even estimate casualties based solely on how busy the plant is this time of day.

"Goddammit, this is why I didn't want Bradford in charge down there. I don't care whose sister's cousin's brother-in-law he is, that doesn't mean diddly-squat when you're talking about handling procedures for acetone peroxide!"

"Well," Pepper's voice says grimly, "it's a mistake he won't make twice. Unfortunately, he's not the only one who's paying for that mistake."

Tony goes still, hands dropping. “How many?”

“Fourteen.”

Steve sees Tony's fingers clench around the towel and then he he hurls it into the corner, snarling, “ _Goddammit!”_

“How soon can you be here?” Pepper asks.

Tony's breathing hard, his shoulders hunched, and Steve steps to the edge of the shower. Before he can say anything, Tony replies, “I can be changed in five minutes. JARVIS—”

“Mister Hogan is already waiting for you in the garage, sir.”

“Great,” Tony says and then mutters something under his breath. “Fifteen minutes, give or take, Pep.”

“I'll meet you downstairs.”

Pepper disconnects and Steve seizes his chance. “You're not responsible, Tony.”

Tony snorts, a nasty, cynical sound and looks up his dark eyes sharp with fury. “Oh, believe me. I know exactly who's responsible for this. It was the goddamn board's decision to instate him. But the company's got my name on it, so that doesn't matter. I gotta go.”

Steve reaches out and snags him by the elbow, pulling him back to land a quick kiss. "Come home after."

Tony runs a hand through his wet hair, then absently flicks the water from it. "I don't know how late I'll be, Steve—"

"I don't care. Come home and wake me up if I'm already asleep."

Tony looks him in the eye, gauging his sincerity, which is ridiculous in Steve's opinion, after a decade and a half of wearing rings, but he just meets the question with a steady answer.

"Love you," Tony says, quickly, quietly, and steals a final kiss.

"Love you, too," Steve replies, then lets Tony go and returns to his shower. He watches through the glass until Tony's gone, then turns his face up into the water and says a prayer for fourteen families.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Throwing up.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No warnings this chapter.

When Aunt Betty finally leaves him alone, Peter rolls onto his side and digs his phone out from under his pillow. He's lucky his dads forgot about it.

 _Everybody's mad at me :(_ he texts Gwen.

He's not worried about the rash. Doctor S assured him that it was just a reaction to the spider venom.

**Gwen 19:32  
February 11, 2031 **

_you didn't tell them did you_

Peter sulks. Gwen is supposed to be on his side.

**Gwen 19:33  
February 11, 2031 **

_you can be so stupid sometimes peter_

_I find that very offensive,_ Peter texts and then crams the phone back under his pillow. He feels too crummy to text anyway. Maybe when he wakes up he'll be superpowered and Gwen won't think he's an idiot anymore.

~

Steve calls Bucky when he gets out of the shower because that's always what he does when shit goes sideways where Tony's concerned, but for whatever reason, he doesn't answer. Steve sighs.

Out in the living room, Bruce has listed onto his side on the couch and he's sleeping with his mouth half-open and his glasses hanging around his chin. Betty's sitting next to him, bent over the coffee table and what are presumably Peter's samples. Clint's sitting on the kitchen counter fussing with a new sling—today probably didn't do his healing shoulder any favors—while Natasha works behind him, putting together something that already smells mouth-watering.

Suddenly, Steve is aware of the gnawing hunger licking at his sternum, the slight headache in the center of his forehead.

"I imagine you're starving," Coulson says, and Steve's startled to see him standing next to the dining room table. That he can still manage that after all this time is...well, it's alarming, is what it is, and not unimpressive. A tiny smile curves Phil's lips as he glances up from the paperwork spread out on the table. "A little bird informed me Peter was unwell and I thought perhaps a more informal debriefing might be welcome." He glances behind Steve and his expression turns quizzical. "Will Tony be joining us soon?"

Steve shakes his head. "He took off maybe twenty minutes after we got back. There was an explosion at one of the factories."

"Well, shit," Clint says.

"I suppose we'll have to do without his contributions then," Phil says. "Mrs. Banner, would you mind...?"  
  
“Certainly.” Betty draws back from the samples, pushing her glasses up onto the top of her head. "Bruce?" She cups his cheek and bends to kiss his forehead, thumb stroking over his skin.

His eyes flutter open and his brow furrows.

"Hi," she says, smiling gently. "Welcome back."

His hand comes up to fix his glasses, then slides back down to cover hers. "Hey."

Her smile widens. "Hey. Phil's here for the debrief. Are you hungry? Natasha's making dinner."

He bites back a yawn and nods, easing up as she straightens out of his way. She runs her hand up and cards through his hair, then kisses his cheek once more before getting to her feet and holding out her hands. Bruce takes them, kissing each one and then using her help to leverage his way to his feet. He scans the room with still-drooping eyes and says, “What about Tony?”

“Had to go,” Steve explains. “Explosion in one of the factories.”

The sleepy softness solidifies into a harder expression. “Bundaberg?”

Steve nods. “Fourteen killed.”

“Dammit.” Bruce sighs and rubs at his eyes. “Did he take it badly?”

Natasha smacks Clint on the thigh with a spatula and Steve moves to help her carry the dishes to the table, shrugging. “As much as expected.”

“If they'd just have listened when Tony told them that man wasn't qualified—”

Steve shoots him a crooked smile. “If wishes were fishes...”

“What about Peter?” Bruce asks, frowning. “How's he doing?”

“Ah,” Betty says with a little smile as everyone finds a place around the table. “I have good news. The rash actually seems to be originating from what I think may be an insect bite on his left hand. So the new symptom is likely _not_ in fact a new symptom, just an unlucky coincidence.”

“Well thank Christ for that,” Clint says, grabbing a serving fork and starting to dish out green beans. “At least one thing's going right.”

“Clint,” Steve says, reproachful.

“What?” Clint says through a mouthful of beans, “I's thanking him, what's wrong with that?”

Steve gives him the unimpressed look that deserves.

Betty pats Steve's arm to recapture his attention. “With any luck, it's just an allergic reaction and the Benedryl will clear it up.”

“Tony will be relieved to hear it,” Steve says, and feels the hard lump of nerves in his chest start to soften.

“This looks immaculate,” Phil says to Natasha, neatly tucking his napkin into the collar of his shirt. She smiles and acknowledges the compliment with a tilt of her head.

“Eat,” she commands in Steve's direction. “I can hear your stomach consuming itself.”

“She tells me to eat less,” Clint grumbles and then hisses. They save the debriefing until after everyone has finished their first helpings, though Steve moves on through servings two, three, and four as they go over the events of the day in painstaking detail.

Phil makes the process as efficient as it is possible to make it, but by the time they're through, Bruce isn't the only one struggling to stay awake. "All right," Phil says at last, paging through the paperwork. "I think that's the last of it. Thank you all."

"Mmph," Clint grunts and lets his head drop down on the table. "Tash, I need drugs. Get me drugs."

Natasha rolls her eyes. "You are an unbelievable child." She goes to collect his pills from the counter though.

"Come on, sweetheart," Betty says, leaning over to kiss Bruce's cheek. "Let's get you to bed."

"Mm," Bruce murmurs in reply, but he doesn't move until she takes his hand. Then he obediently follows the tug of her hand. He waves half-heartedly as she leads him to the elevator, mumbling an incomprehensible goodbye.

Coulson leaves in their wake, followed by a cranky, complaining archer.

Natasha lingers, helping Steve carry the dishes to the sink.

"You've had a rough week," she says and Steve laughs.

"Seems pretty routine to me."

She gives him a steady, serious look and his smile fades, his shoulders droop. One hand comes up, thumb just barely brushing his cheek. "Sleep tonight, _Stiepanchka_."

~

 _hey doc,_ Peter texts later when he's still not asleep, ugh, and bored: _little sicker today. still throwing up. the rash is still spreading. my family found it and freaked out._

He's starting to drift off again when the phone buzzes in his hand.

**Doc 17:05  
February 11, 2031**

_Did you tell them?_

Peter snorts. _no, are you kidding, they'd kill me. i'm grounded already for not saying anything about the rash._

**Doc 17:05  
February 11, 2031**

_Do you think they won't ground you when you  
have improved?_

Peter thinks about that for a second.

_no. they're definitely gonna kill me then, but i'm gonna put it off as long as possible_

Someone knocks on the door and Peter jerks, nearly throwing his phone onto the floor. He looks up and Aunt Natasha is smirking at him around the door. “Who you texting?”

“Um, n-nobody,” Peter stutters, like an idiot. “Just a friend,” he amends, and turns the screen off, slipping it under the covers.

“Uh huh,” she says. She's got that look in her eye and Peter's learned enough from her and Uncle Clint to know that he's going to have to give up some kind of secret or she'll never let it go.

She sits on the edge of the bed and brushes the hair back out of his face. “What did you do today, aside from scare the daylights out of everyone?”

“Not much,” Peter says. “Mostly I puked a lot,” he admits.

Natasha wrinkles her nose. “Your throat hurting you?”

“Yeah,” he says, because it is. It's sour-tasting and feels like it's on fire.

“I'll get you some sorbet,” she says, “and then we can talk about who you're talking to that's got you so twitchy.”

Peter groans as she leaves, smiling to herself. He goes to text a complaint to Gwen and, seeing her messages makes him feel like Caesar. Which, he realizes, _is_ something he can tell Aunt Tasha.

~

It's nearly four AM when Tony finally staggers home.

Another hour and he'll have been up twenty-four hours straight. It's not like that's a record for him, not by a long shot, but forty-two hours in the lab or the workshop hasn't got a thing on ten-plus hours dealing with Loki's bullshit followed by a marathon session putting out the onslaught of metaphorical fires caused by an incompetency-driven crisis that could have been avoided if the idiots controlling the company would admit that he knows more about the practical qualifications of the job then a bunch of corporate dickwads who wouldn't know magnesium from aluminum.

In the last eleven hours he's held two separate press conferences, one for the American late-edition and another for the Australian evening-edition, started pulling funds together to compensate the families of the workers killed, and started drafting statements for release as the story breaks. He's dragged all twenty-three Stark Industries board members out of their homes to deliver a dressing down Pepper assured him would haunt them to their deathbeds, and he's going to make damn sure the public knows exactly who appointed Bradford and that to say he opposed it is a vast understatement.

Pepper's already warned him that choosing not to fully shoulder the blame himself is going to complicate things and is likely going to result in some massive restructuring of the board. SI stock will suffer. Tony's delighted by the idea of getting rid of some of the board and the stockholders will get over it—it won't be the first major dive the stock's taken. He's not planning on trying to weasel his way out of his share of the responsibility; he knew the guy was unqualified and he should have fought harder to keep him out of the position.

He's also had to get in contact with both local and international authorities to assure them of his full and absolute cooperation with their investigations, not to mention getting the ball rolling on the internal audit. It's still too early to get started on the memorial and the funeral services, but he's already started mentally rearranging his schedule to prepare for a trip down there. Something like this, it's only right that he do as much as he can personally and do it in person. These people deserved better and since he can't do right by them, he's going to do right by the people they've left behind.

Speaking of those left behind.

Tony's had a hell of a time focusing on clean up with his worry for Peter niggling at the back of his mind all night. Sure, Steve's kept him in the loop—he's wildly relieved that it's just a spider-bite causing the rash and not some exotic disease—but it rankles, not being there, not being able to check for himself. Especially after Peter's little stunt with JARVIS' protocol.

So naturally he beelines for Peter's room when he arrives, easing open the door to peer inside.

“Welcome home, sir,” JARVIS murmurs. “Peter's condition has remained unchanged since your departure. His temperature has remained essentially steady, fluctuating between 100 and 101 degrees. Doctors Banner are running a number of tests on the samples taken earlier this evening.”

Tony nods and lays the back of his hand against Peter's forehead for a moment before brushing his hair back from his forehead. He's slack-jawed with sleep and it makes him look like he's seven-years-old. Tony spent years being determined he'd never be the guy saying _they grow up so fast_ , but here he is and that's exactly what he's doing. Where did the kid who hid under the lab tables while he worked go?

Peter snuffles, face turning into his pillow and Tony smiles, bending to brush a kiss on his cheek. “Love you, buddy,” he whispers and retreats.

He shambles into the bedroom, debating whether or not it's worth it to go into the bathroom to wash the make-up off. He's going to have to be up in, ugh, god, _three hours_ to do the morning press conference. He's halfway to the bed before he realizes the answer is no.

Steve is lying on his side with his limbs carefully tucked in. Tony drops his pants at the bedside and crawls onto the mattress, groaning softly as he drags a pillow into his arms. It's cool and welcoming and Tony lets out a breath, feeling the tension still keeping him awake start to seep out of his body. He reaches over to tug on Steve's t-shirt. “H'y,” he mumbles into the pillow.

Steve shifts and then rolls over, reaching out himself to curl his hand around Tony's waist as he squints at him. He doesn't say anything, just pulls Tony up against him, mouth pressing against his shoulder in a drowsy kiss.

Tony returns the favor just beneath the hollow of Steve's throat and Steve's grip tightens.

God, he's glad he didn't just pass out on the couch in Pepper's office. So worth it.

~

When Tony jerks awake in response to JARVIS' wake up call at seven AM, he's got a mother of a sleep-debt hangover. But Steve, the wonderful son of a bitch, left him a mug of coffee on the bedside table, which is just the right temperature thanks to its wait for him, and he laid out Tony's clothes at the foot of the bed. For that he's immeasurably grateful; Tony's not sure he could tell blue from green right now.

He manages to sit up on the edge of the mattress and starts gulping down the coffee. The rush of caffeine makes his whole head throb, but it dulls after a moment, sluggish neurons starting to fire properly. He still feels like shit, but more coherent shit anyway. That's something.

When the coffee's gone Tony groans and pushes to his feet. He twists, cracking his spine with several light pops, and scrubs his hands over his face. “JARVIS, where's Steve?”

“Out for his morning run, sir.”

“Hmph.”

Steve's done a good job absorbing the PR team and Pepper's wardrobe lessons because he's chosen a charcoal gray suit, paired with a dark silver shirt and a somber black tie with a faint silver diamond pattern. It's one of the most subdued outfits Tony owns and it should be perfect. Tony slips into it, taking care to make sure he's got black socks—not navy blue—and that every piece is in place, unwrinkled and pristine.

He smooths a hand down his tie as he double-checks himself in the mirror. He looks impeccable from the neck down, and like shit from there up, but that's nothing some light touches of concealer and bronzer won't easily hide.

His next stop is the kitchen for a refill on his coffee, quick strides carrying him across the floor, empty mug in one hand, tablet in the other so JARVIS can display his messages and important news updates.

He grunts at the reports of how SI is doing in the overseas exchanges, knowing that's going to be nothing compared to NYSE in two and a half hours, but, actually, it could be much worse. _The board will be thrilled_ , he thinks darkly.

He sets the mug down and scrubs a hand over his face as the tablet follows, gesturing for the information on it to be thrown up on a floating display.

He loads his second mug with sugar for the boost to the caffeine but nothing can cover the bitter taste in his throat as he sees that two of the critical patients from last night have since passed away and one was downgraded in their place.

"JARVIS, add them to the list and start locating relevant family for the memorial funds."

"Already done, sir," JARVIS says, quietly somber. Tony almost wishes for the early days, when JARVIS' intonations and emotions weren't nearly so precise or diverse. A little bit of bland apathy right now would do wonders for his mood and his souring stomach.

He's not at all interested in food, but he makes and eats toast because he has to eat when he can and nausea or a dizzy spell later on won't help anything.

Once he's inundated himself with the news and started the process of assimilating it all in the back of his mind he takes a selfish moment to worry about his own life, eyes sliding to the hallway leading to Peter's room.

"How is he, JARVIS?" he asks, muttered into his coffee more than said aloud, silently mocking himself for the concession to the ridiculous notion that saying it louder might invite bad news and that if he can only keep it quiet enough, the universe won't hear and get ideas.

"His temperature has increased one degree and he has grown more restless. The rash continues to spread, though at a slowing rate."

"Shit," Tony curses wiping his hand down his face again, pressing at his eye sockets and pinching the bridge of his nose. He inhales deeply and then drops his hand.

“Doctor Banner is with Peter now,” JARVIS says and Tony replies, “ _What?”,_ bits of his mouthful of toast flying everywhere. He darts around the island and heads straight for Peter's room.

Bruce glances up when he barrels in, but turns his attention back to Peter the second he sees who it is. He's holding one of Peter's arms in his hands gingerly, the fingers of one pressing into the meat of Peter's forearm. “On a scale of one to ten?”

Peter grimaces and shrugs. “Four and a half?”

Tony smothers the urge to demand details, reminding himself that this isn't an unreasonable hour for Bruce to be up and he's probably just checking on Peter while he has the time and if he freaks out that will just scare Peter and neither Peter nor Bruce looks worried yet. So he stands back and waits, ignoring the clock in his head counting down, reminding him that Pepper's expecting him.

It's dark, still, the lingering darkness of winter-short days turning the shelves and desk and piles of clothes and things, the detritus of a teenage boy's life, into darker pockets of shadow in the gloom. The darkness definitely doesn't encourage Tony's miniscule sense of optimism.

“Make sure you're drinking those fluids,” Bruce says at last and Tony bites down on his knuckles to keep from barking, _Yes, he knows, now tell me what the fuck is going on!_

“Hey, Dad,” Peter says, sounding surprised and pleased and exhausted. He glances at his bed table clock and adds, “You're up early.”

“Factory explosion. Gotta start making amends and figuring out what the hell happened.”

“The board made you hire an idiot, that's what happened.”

Tony huffs. “What would you know about it?”

Peter snorts and then winces. “Ow. Dad, please. You complained about that decision for _weeks_. You predicted something like this would happen.”

Tony sobers. “I hate when I'm right.” He shakes out of it as Bruce approaches and says, “How're you feeling, anyway, Bambi?”

“Shitty,” Peter says, blithe, and Tony lets out a bark of laughter.

“Don't let your father hear you say that, he'd throw a fit.”

Peter smiles and tugs on his comforter. “Just between us, right?”

“And me,” Bruce says, with a wry smile.

“Yeah, but you're the cool uncle,” Tony says, Peter murmuring in agreement and Bruce laughs.

“While your attempts at flattery are amusing, I think we all know that I am not the 'cool uncle'.”

“All right,” Tony says, waving Bruce toward the door, “that's enough banter. I'm on a schedule here. Feel better, Bambi.”

Peter flutters his fingers and Tony shoves Bruce back out into the living room. Fortunately, Bruce is agreeable and lets him. “What's going on?” Tony demands when they've put some distance between them and the bedroom. “Is he sicker?”

“Sir,” JARVIS says, “you are due in the garage in two minutes.”

“Tony, calm down. Breathe." He waits, watching and Tony doesn't feel like playing along when he is so clearly being patronized, but the clock is still ticking and he doesn't have time to out-stubborn Bruce—especially when Bruce usually wins, the cheater, using his meditation skills is so not fair—so he very conspicuously and noisily inhales through his nose and out through his mouth. Then he arches his eyebrows.

"Okay—"

"Again," Bruce says, and the corner of his lips are twitching and he's got that look in his eyes—not the green angry one, the amused one—but JARVIS is saying, "Sir—" and he's out of time and goddammit, fine!

He continues inhaling and exhaling, but waves a hand to indicate Bruce can speak while he's doing this stupid zen crap.

Thankfully, Bruce does, even if the smile fades away. "I'm here because Peter's temperature went up another two degrees in the last six hours. He's suffering from muscular aches as a result, but all that means is his body is fighting hard to get rid of whatever's causing this.” Then Bruce hesitates and Tony knows he's not saying something.

“Dammit, Bruce. What is it? What are you not telling me?”

Bruce rubs his fingers over his lips and then admits, “The Benedryl helped with the itching, but the rash hasn't faded. If anything, it's still spreading. That shouldn't be happening almost three days after the bite occurred. Allergic reactions and venom act quickly. And it's just— I'm not an expert, Tony. I've learned a lot, especially in the last twenty years, but there's so much I don't know. Betty has a better handle on it, but neither of us has spent much time researching bites—”

“Do you think we should bring someone else in?”

Bruce makes a face that tells Tony he's not thrilled with the idea.

"Should we or not, _Doctor_ Banner?" Tony snaps and Bruce gives him a sharp look in return. Tony's not interested in cuddling Bruce's poor ego right now, though, he knows damn well that this isn't nearly enough to rouse Big Green from a nap.

Bruce stares back and Tony wonders if the sick, clawing feeling of helplessness is showing in his eyes, because Bruce's are suddenly full of sympathy.

"I really can't make that call. He's not getting better, yes, but he's also not getting worse in a way that suggests this is anything but his body working through whatever is in his system." He sighs and pulls off his glasses. "Honestly, I'm not sure if this is all related to the bite. It could just be really awful timing that he was already sick when he got bitten. Based on what we know now, I think Betty and I can handle it."

Tony grits his teeth and plants his hands on his hips, considering the floor for a long moment. "So it might not be that serious. I could just be overreacting and making a mountain out of a molehill here."

Bruce's lips twitched again at that. "Oh, no, that would be ridiculous. You would never, ever do that, Tony."

Tony huffs a laugh and lets his hands fall. "Shut up, you. I can revoke your lab privileges too, don't think I can't."

The moment passes and even though Bruce says seriously, "You need to talk to Steve, and probably include Peter too, about this." He shrugs. "And if you feel like it's necessary, call in someone else. I won't be offended. Much," it's like a weight has been lifted.

Bruce can protest his medical ignorance all he wants, but he's not an idiot any more than Tony is and he has made it a point to learn a lot more about medicine and the human body since his accident, even more since they all came together. If he's not worried, Tony shouldn't be either.

"Okay. I'll—" He glances at his watch. "Shit! I'll have to call Steve later," he says, heading out at a jog. "Thanks, Bruce. Good luck with CERN and if," he pauses at the open elevator door JARVIS is holding for him, "you know, anything happens..."

"JARVIS will keep you in the loop," Bruce promises. "And Peter won't stop him this time, either."

Tony points and levels a glare. "And we'll talk about _that_ later too."

Then the door is shutting and he leans back against the wall, letting his head fall back.

Today is going to be a long fucking day, he knows. Best to just get it over with as quickly as possible.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shitsnacks i almost forgot to post this

“Steve, I'm sending him home for you to deal with. If I have to listen to him bitch about how _keeping the company running normally during a crisis_ is not his priority, I'm going to strangle him and then we'll really have a mess on our hands,” Pepper bursts the moment Steve accepts her call. She sounds like she's hanging on to her composure by a thread, which tells him a lot about how Tony must be acting, so he smothers his smile and sets down the knife he's slicing up a tomato with and leans back against the counter to listen.

“That bad, huh?”

Pepper makes a growling sound and Steve has to cover his mouth to stifle his chuckle. Wow, he's really got her riled up. Then she sighs and Steve can practically hear her deflate. “I know he's worried about Peter and he feels guilty about the people who were killed and, based on the size of the bags under his eyes, he hasn't been sleeping enough _again_ , but I need him right now.”

“What do you need from him?” Steve asks.

“Paperwork,” Pepper says and it sounds like she's lost all hope. “Essentially. There are several things he's already supposed to have signed off on and he _hasn't_ and if he would just get it over with, it would be one less thing for me to worry about. I used to be able to cajole him into doing these things with minimal fuss, but...”

Steve nods. “That was when you worked for him full time.”

Pepper sighs again. “Yes.”

“Sir,” JARVIS says, and there's a certain ominousness to his tone, “Mister Stark is coming up the elevator.”

Steve raises his eyebrows and says, “Thanks for the heads up. Pepper, I'll do what I can. When do you need him back?”

“The next press conference is at six PM. I'll be there with Happy at five.”

She hangs up just as the elevator doors glide open.

“God _damn_ it!” Tony snarls, hands curling into claws, and Steve tugs out his cell phone as he moves to greet him, tapping the _Avengers Assemble_ household shortcut.

“Technology's not all it's cracked up to be,” Steve says as he slips the phone back into his pocket. “Used to be you could slam a door, get out some of that frustration.”

Tony shoots him a poisonous look. “Bite your tongue, Luddite.”

Steve smiles and sidles a little closer, ducking his head.

“Oh, no,” Tony says, waving a finger. “Don't start with that _Leave It to Beaver_ bullshit.”

“Tony,” he says, sliding his hands in his pockets and peeking up at him.

“Stop that!” Tony demands. “I'm pissed off!”

“Sure are,” Steve says and he's gotten close enough to reach for the buttons on Tony's jacket. He starts undoing them, brushing Tony's hands away when he starts batting at his fingers.

“What are you doing home anyway?” he snaps. “I'm not staying. Pepper's got another thing coming if she thinks I'm gonna nap. I'm not a toddler. _Would you stop that?!_ ”

Steve looks up at him without moving his head, well aware that it makes him look sweet and boyish and _that_ makes it nearly impossible for Tony to hold on to his anger. He can already see Tony's resolve wavering.

“Lousy day, huh?” he says, and Tony stares at him as he slides his hands under the collar of the jacket, slipping it free of Tony's shoulders.

“This is not working,” Tony says. “I still hate everyone.”

"Even me?" Clint says from his spot on the couch where they'd been discussing training scenarios. Tony jerks under Steve's hands, obviously just now becoming aware of the archer's presence. "That hurts, Stark. That hurts my soul."

Tony's face twists with fresh annoyance and Steve tugs him closer until they're all but sharing the same space. Clint, eternal teenager that he is, starts making exaggerated gagging noises.

“Ignore him,” Steve murmurs, stepping close to catch the jacket. He can feel the heat of Tony's skin against his cheek. Tony grunts and Steve feels his fingers on his stomach. The last of the defiance in his gaze starts to ebb.

Then a bolt of lightning cracks the dark sky outside and thunder rattles the glass.

The elevator door opens to reveal Bruce, Darcy, Betty, and Natasha and from the couch, Clint drawls, “Guess who.”

Some residual crackles of lightning and thunder grumble outside and Tony growls, “Damn drama queen,” and pulls away. Steve sighs.

Clint makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a hacking cough at the absolute irony in that statement, but Tony just points a finger at him without bothering to look and snaps, “Are you sick? Thinking about getting sick? Get out.”

Clint waves his hands, points at his throat and chokes, “Saliva—breathed it—”

“Yeah, I don't care,” Tony says.  
  
The doors to the Iron Man landing platform glide open and Thor bounds through, his arms spread joyfully. Tony stalks forward to greet him with an expression as black as the clouds outside the window, but before he can get a word out, Thor has swept him up into a hug.

“Brother!” he exclaims and Tony makes a breathless noise of indignation, his toes almost a foot off the ground. Thor sets him down a little too hard and the next noise Tony makes is pained, his knees almost buckling. He gets a white-knuckled grip on Thor's arm and Thor grips his arms in return, face twisting into an expression of sincerest concern. “Heimdall summoned me to the bridge, he said young Peter has been overtaken by some affliction?”

“What have I told you about the man-handling?” Tony demands, grimacing and rubbing at his knee. “Jesus, I think you broke something.”

Thor immediately looks contrite, reaching to touch Tony's shoulder, his grip more ginger and his gaze focused on the hand Tony has at his knee. “I apologize, I was distressed to hear of Peter's illness and I have not remembered myself. Do you need to be seated?”

Tony gives him a dirty look, but lays off the rubbing and mutters, “No, no,” and the rest drops under his breath, too low to understand.

Thor glances around the room, his face brightening when he sees Clint, Natasha, and Bruce. “Sister!” he says warmly, moving forward to grasp Natasha's elbows. He kisses her cheek and she smiles, leans up on her tiptoes to kiss both of his. “It has been too long.”  
  
“It has,” she agrees and he releases her to drag Clint and Bruce into a hug.

“Brothers.” Clint rolls his eyes, patting Thor's back as his face is mashed into the demi-god's chest plate and Bruce flushes, patting Thor's elbow gingerly.

“Good to see you, too, Thor,” he says.

Then Thor relinquishes his grip on them as well and his gaze moves to where Steve stands and all of the merriness in his face fades away. He strides forward, hauling Steve into a rib-crushing hug. Steve can't help but smile, hugging back. “Hey, Thor. We've missed you around here.”

“And I you,” Thor says. “Things in Asgard have been, well... _strained_ shall we say.” He waves his hand before Steve can ask and says, “But I have not come to speak of my troubles. How fares mine nephew?”

“He fares fine.” The six of them turn to see Peter standing in the hall doorway in his pajamas, smiling despite his clear exhaustion. “Hey, Uncle Thor.”

“What are you doing out of bed?” Tony demands.

“It went from vaguely gray to thunderstorms in, like, two seconds. I know the signs. Besides, I'm on the household _Assemble_ list, remember?”

Tony frowns and turns to look at Steve. “Well, that explains why our living room has been invaded, but not _why.”_

Steve shrugs. “Pepper told me about the board.”

Tony stares at him. “And you thought an impromptu party was the best way to deal with that?”

“I thought we could all keep Peter company,” he replies. “He's getting cabin fever.”

Tony's eyes go a little darker. “You're just trying to distract me. These bums are just your back up.”

Steve smiles sunnily. “Could be, but Peter looks pretty happy, don't you think?” He waves a hand to where Peter has his arm hooked around Thor's neck, laughing.

Tony's expression softens when he looks over. “All right, all right,” he grumbles. “But I'm not going to calm down.”

“I think I'd throw myself off the building if you did,” Clint says as he heads to the kitchen to raid the fridge.

“Is that supposed to be clever? You throw yourself off of buildings everyday. I'd be hard-pressed to find a building you _haven't_ thrown yourself off of.”

“I'm waiting on intel right now, Tony,” Natasha says, flicking his arm with the end of her scarf. “I could go with you to Bundaberg if you like.”

Tony sighs and Steve is pleased to see his temper fizzle out. It leaves him looking exhausted and resigned, but at least he's not wasting his energy being angry about things he can't change. “Thanks, Natasha, but I can handle it. I just don't _want_ to. Bunch of slimy ingrates.”

Over by the couch, Thor is removing the less forgiving parts of his Asgardian clothing, laying the armor out on a chair while he catches up with Peter, his smile wide and fond.

It's been nearly two months since his last visit; apparently the centennial review of the realm's taxes was not a speedy process.

The rest of the room is equally full of chatter; nowadays group gatherings are a special occasion kind of occurrence. With everyone's schedules it gets difficult to orchestrate them. Steve smiles to himself, just allowing himself to enjoy the pleasure of having everyone he loves together again. They've come a long way since those early days—since he washed up on that beach in North Carolina.

Steve gets a special kick out of watching the others check up on Peter, brushing lingering hands through his hair and asking if he has everything he needs. Clint joins him on the couch with a carton of Tony's favorite ice cream, offering him a spoonful. He laughs at the dirty look Peter gives him for his trouble.

It takes nearly an hour for all of them to settle in and by then Peter's got an enormous cache of goods piled within easy reach—everything from a plastic-bag lined trash can to a worn stuffed pale yellow duck with a drooping red and white gingham bow around it's neck. Nobody's sure where the duck came from originally, but it shows up whenever someone's feeling less than a hundred percent.

Tony is equally well-looked after, if more subtly. He's got a drink thanks to Darcy and a pillow thanks to Bruce and he's slumped down on the couch, looking good and relaxed except for the way his expression darkens when he's not being spoken to.

Steve is the last to sit, right between Tony and Peter.

“Start 'er up, J,” Tony calls. “Pep's gonna be on my ass again in no time.”

As the movie starts, Steve threads his fingers through Tony's and tugs. Tony grunts and slumps sideways into the crook of his shoulder. “Shit, I'm tired,” he mutters and breathes in, sinking more fully against Steve's side.

Steve doesn't answer because he knows the second he mentions sleep, Tony will remain obstinately awake. So he shushes Tony instead and starts to brush his thumb back and forth, back and forth over the back of Tony's hand.

He's asleep before the opening credits have ended.

By the time the ending credits roll, he's slumped over in Steve's lap, drooling on his thigh.

“One more,” Bruce says from where he's sitting at Betty's feet, head on her knee. She has her fingers buried in his curls and his eyes are only half-open.

“I'm game,” Clint says. A ripple of seconding goes through the room, followed by, “But after I get a refill,” and “Need to pee, then totally.”

Steve is both hungry again and needing to empty his bladder, so he slips out from under Tony, smiling at his mumble of discontent and takes off for the head.

“Hey, Thor,” he calls when he's returned and stuck his head in the fridge. “You want something to eat?”

He laughs at the expected, “I am famished, certainly!”

“I thought you might be.”

~

“So, uh, did Heimdall see what made me sick?” Peter asks, trying to look more curious than worried. Thor leans sideways on the couch, resting his head on Peter's shoulder.

“Nay, he merely saw you were staying home from school as he made his rounds.”

“Your head's like a brick, Uncle Thor,” Peter complains, relieved. The longer he's sick, the more nervous he is something's gone wrong, or that somebody will figure it out and try to reverse it. He keeps having to remind himself that the test animals sometimes took as long as two weeks to go through the process.

Thor tilts his head back, grinning, and leaning a little more of his weight on Peter.

“Oh my god, you're crushing me.” Peter gasps exaggeratedly.

“You know Heimdall cannot see any more than you or I would be able,” Thor says as he mashes Peter into the sofa cushions. Peter groans ineffectually. “He would not be able to see an illness taking hold.” He leans back suddenly and Peter blinks up at him, dazed. He's frowning. “Do you have reason to think Heimdall would have seen your illness begin?”

“No,” Peter blurts and feels his face turn red. Thor frowns more deeply. “Really,” Peter insists, and anyone other than Uncle Thor would be able to smell the smoke coming off his pants. “I just thought he might have seen somebody chewing on my pen or something.”

Thor relaxes, a mischievous smile slipping across his face. “Someone like your Gwen Stacy?”

~

Steve is heating up some chicken soup on the stove, boiling up some extra noodles to throw in when he hears Thor's voice suddenly rise, alarmed, followed by the _pop-crash_ of a glass hitting the tile.

“Is anyone hurt?” he calls over his shoulder.

“What the _hell,_ Thor,” Tony demands, slurring groggily.

“I did nothing!”

“There's glass everywhere, I wouldn't say that's noth...” Tony trails off and after a second of silence, says warily, “Peter?”

Steve turns, frowning, when he hears no response.

“Peter?” Tony barks and then his head pops up over the back of the couch, shouting, “ _Bruce!”_

“I did _nothing_ ,” Thor insists again, white-faced. “I do not understand—”

Steve's stomach lurches. “Tony, what is it? What's wrong?”

“ _BETTY!”_

“I'm here, Tony!” Bruce replies, harried, and he freezes as he reaches the couch, a moment of plain shock crossing his face before he finds his composure. Steve turns the burner off with a snap, tossing aside the dish towel in his hands and rushing to join them.

“Dammit, will one of you tell me what's going on?” He skirts around the couch.

Tony's yelling, “ _What's wrong with him?_ ” 

“Calm down,” Bruce orders, waving Tony's hands away from Peter. He snatches them back.

Then Steve finally sees Peter and his stomach trickles down to his toes.

Peter's eyes have gone glassy and unfocused, his right hand hanging limp over the edge of the couch and his left making small grasping gestures at his stomach. His head is hanging at a slight angle, moving in a triangular shape over and over like he's dropping off to sleep and waking again and again.

But he's not—he's not _there._ He's not _Peter_ and the fear prickles on Steve's skin like a living thing, from the roots of his hair to the soles of his feet.

“It's a seizure,” Bruce explains patiently and Steve's knees turn to jelly. He sinks onto the couch next to Tony, staring.

_ A seizure. _

“Oh, fuck,” Tony says and Steve's never heard his voice, thin and wavering like that before.

“Bruce,” Betty says, voice still calm and measured, “call the medical bay and have them prep a bed.” Then she turns her attention to them and says, “Stay calm. He's all right.”

Steve wants to yell, _He sure as hell doesn't look all right!_

But Betty is looking into Peter's face, saying, “You're probably scared, Peter, but it's okay. You're okay. What you're experiencing right now is just a seizure. You're safe.”

“ _Just a seizure_ ,” Tony repeats, sounding strangled.

“He was _well,_ ” Thor says, and his blue eyes are over-bright. “We were talking of Gwen Stacy and—the glass slipped from his fingers—he would not _respond—”_

“Thor, it's okay,” Bruce says, glancing up at him. He's not touching Peter, not doing anything to fix this—this _seizure—_ why isn't he doing anything? “You didn't do anything wrong. This isn't your fault.”

“ _Do something, Banner_ ,” Steve hears himself demand, and geez, what's wrong with him, he hasn't called Bruce by his surname in _years._

Bruce's gaze turns to him, still maddeningly patient. “There's nothing _to_ do, Steve. Peter's okay. I know it's pretty scary to see, but he's not thrashing so he's not a danger to himself. He'll come out of it.”

Just then Peter's whole body loosens, his head dipping forward like he's falling asleep. Bruce catches him, keeping him from slumping forward with a gentle hand cupped around the side of his neck, the other resting gingerly against his shoulder. “Peter,” he says, low and soothing, “can you squeeze my fingers?”

Peter must do it because Bruce smiles and says, “Good, good. You're probably a little overwhelmed right now, so I'm not going to ask you any questions. What you just experienced was a partial seizure. It's not a good sign, but the seizure itself is not going to hurt you. It won't affect your brain and it's not a sign of brain damage either, so don't worry about that, all right? You're okay. You're safe.”

“What's happening to me?” Peter asks in a small voice and Steve presses a hand down over his mouth.

“I don't know, Peter,” Bruce says honestly, “but we're going to find out.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings.

_'I could be making a mountain out of a molehill.'_ _Did I actually fucking_ say _that?_ Tony thinks as he paces alongside the couch, his knuckles pressed into his mustache.

Betty relayed the message that the bed in medical was ready a few minutes ago, but Peter's still curled up on the couch between Bruce and Steve, blinking drowsily at Clint while he cleans up the shattered glass. Tony keeps seeing the thousand-yard-stare of the seizure anyway.

“JARVIS,” Betty says suddenly, “what is Peter's temperature?”

“One-hundred and three degrees Fahrenheit, Doctor,” JARVIS replies promptly.

Betty catches Bruce's eye and they share a significant look before Bruce asks, “And what was it an hour ago?”

“One-hundred and one point six.”

Tony blinks at the smile that breaks out across Bruce's face. “What?” he demands. “What does that mean?”

“Peter, when's the last time you took Tylenol?” Bruce asks instead of answering him, the ass.

Peter shrugs. “I dunno. This morning maybe?”

Bruce practically beams in response. “That's good?” Steve says, and his hand curls around Peter's a little more tightly.

“Yes, that's good,” Betty says before Tony can snap. “Peter's temperature rose almost a degree and a half in an hour. Which means...”

“It was likely a febrile seizure,” Bruce finishes. “It's unusual for them to occur in teenagers, but not unheard of. Peter really is fine. His body was just responding to the rapid rise in temperature. If we administer regular doses of Tylenol it shouldn't happen again.”

“You can stop being the exception anytime now, Pete,” Clint comments and straightens up, waggling the little hand-held vac he's got. “Think I got it all.”

“Thank God,” Steve murmurs and hooks his hand around Peter's jaw, dragging him over so he can plant a kiss on the side of his head. Tony digs his teeth into his lip as he breathes out the nerves. Peter's okay.

He doesn't trust himself not to squeeze too hard, so he reaches for Steve's shoulder instead of Peter's head the way he wants to. When Steve looks up, his relief is written all over his face. Tony's fingers tighten.

“I still think we should take him down to the MedBay,” Betty says and Bruce nods.

“I agree, it will be easier to track the administration of each dose and there are a few tests I'd like to do to see if we can get a more concrete diagnosis.”

“Great. Fantastic. Sounds like a plan to me. Steve—”

“I've got him,” Steve says with a nod. He and Bruce are getting to their feet when the elevator door slides open. “Pepper!” Steve says, guilt thick in his voice. “I forgot, I'm sorry.”

She waves a hand. “It's all right, I'm almost an hour early. Did you at least get him to sleep a little?”

“Almost two hours,” Steve replies and Pepper looks relieved to hear it.

“I'll take it,” she says. “Tony, we need to get moving, Happy's waiting. There was another incident and the press conference has been canceled. I've made arrangements for us to leave in—two hours and forty-three minutes. You need to pack, now.”

“You moved the flight up twelve hours? What the hell happened? I might be able to catch up with you, but I think you're gonna have to go this one alone—”

“I've already informed Bradford's second-in-command that we're coming and we're expected at the hospital as soon as we land. It will be the middle of the night there, but the injured investigator insisted. I know this isn't a good time, but these things rarely are—”

“That's the understatement of the millennia. Peter's _sick,_ Pepper—”

“—and I realize that, but there's been a secondary explosion at the factory.”

“Are you even listening to me? _Peter had a seizure._ ”

There's a moment of silence as everything sinks in, then, simultaneously: “ _What?”_

“A _seizure?_ Oh my god, Tony, that's—”

“You've got to be shitting me. Another explosion?”

Pepper's staring at Peter, wide-eyed, so it takes a beat for her to absorb what he's said. Then she drags her eyes away and smooths a hand over her hair—it's a steadying gesture that has nothing to do with grooming, and says, “I—yes. Late this afternoon. Or, well, I guess tomorrow morning over there, but—oh my god. _Tony_.”

“Yeah, I know,” Tony says, sighing. “Bruce and Betty say he's fine, though. For certain values of fine. Fuck. That means I've gotta go, doesn't it? How bad was it?”

“One of the investigators was injured.”

“Shit.” Tony starts pacing again, mind racing. “Okay, so wheels up in two hours and...”

“Thirty-eight minutes,” Pepper supplies quickly.

“I'll pack your things,” Natasha says. “You and Steve should go down to medical with Peter.”

Tony nods slowly. Yeah. That sounds...that sounds good. “If you have any questions—”

“I can ask JARVIS.”

“Darcy and I can clean up here,” Clint adds. “Go.”

Tony swallows and nods, and not for the first time in his life, is astoundingly grateful that these are the people fate or whatever brought him together with.

“Do we have to move?” Peter asks, pulling his blanket closer. “I'm tired.” He looks like he's barely keeping his eyes open, so “tired” seems like a vast understatement.

“I'll carry you,” Steve says and everyone seems to take that as their cue to disperse.

Pepper steps into place next to Tony and says quietly, “I'm sorry, Tony. If there was any way...”

He sighs and nudges her arm with his elbow. “I know, Pep. Maybe next time don't let so many assholes onto the board.”

Pepper smiles and replies, “I think it was _you_ who let them on, Tony.”

“Was it? Still. You're supposed to keep me from doing stupid things.”

“I'll make a note of it,” she says dryly. Then Steve approaches carrying Peter, who has wrapped his arms around Steve's neck, his ankles hooking around the back of Steve's thighs, clinging the way he used to when he was still young enough to be getting carried around. A sharp stabbing sensation strikes him right behind the arc reactor and Tony's barely aware of Pepper murmuring, “No more than an hour, if you can.”

Steve adjusts his grip, because Peter's a lot bigger than he used to be and then presses his nose into the skin behind Peter's ear, breathing deep. Tony's heart staggers hard. “You okay?” Steve asks, quiet, and Peter nods once, his head resting heavily on Steve's shoulder.

“Tired,” he mumbles.

“Let's go get him settled,” Tony says and clears his throat when his voice breaks a little at the end.

Thor follows the three of them, Bruce, and Betty into the elevator and Tony has to actively beat back a spike of irritation. Thor didn't actually _do_ anything and he came all the way from another _realm_ to visit his sick nephew so being annoyed with him is a less than kind. Logic is useless in this case, however, and rather than snapping at Thor for being a doting uncle, Tony focuses his attention on Peter, and what little time he's got left. 

He follows close behind Steve, the fingers of his right hand hooked into the waistband of Steve's pants so he can keep his eyes on Peter without having to pay attention to where he's going. Peter blinks blearily at him a few times and then smiles and Tony forgets how to breathe.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says when the short in his brain repairs itself. Even sick as a dog, his kid's the most beautiful thing in the world.

Peter mumbles something in return, too quiet and too mangled to understand, his eyes drooping shut. Tony never got the watching people sleep thing, not until Peter. Now he gets it; hell, he watches Peter sleep at least once a week, sometimes when he can't sleep himself, sometimes after a mission, sometimes just because he can. It crams him full of all these emotions, things he has no idea what to do with, but it's _good_ in a way, cathartic, and he just goes and watches Peter, lets it all wash over him.

When they get to the MedBay, it's basically empty aside from a scientist who shucked out of his lab coat so the night shift doctor can get a look at something Tony can't see on his arm.

“Hank, we're heading into the isolation room,” Bruce calls and the doctor glances up just long enough to flash them a thumbs up.

“You prepped the isolation room?” Tony says, tensing.

“I chose it because it will give Peter a little bit of privacy,” Bruce explains. “It's not easy to sleep in the main bay with injured scientists coming in and out and he needs as much rest as he can get.”

“Oh,” Tony says, winding down. “Oh. How thoughtful of you.”

Bruce slips him a smile over his shoulder. “I try.”

They troop through a door in the center of the bay that opens into a small lab. The far wall of the lab is a special transparent polymer—Stark technology, of course—that's radiation absorbent. A trait which the entire room shares, as well as being capable of producing a negative pressure environment. It's basically an all-purpose room for housing patients who are highly contagious and/or radioactive (the radioactive part is abnormal, but had been one of Bruce's requirements if he was going to stay). Bruce has never needed to be locked down in it, but there had been an incident, probably five years ago, when some idiot had said _fuck protocol_ and experimented with irradiation on a rabbit he'd brought in from  home _._

“Dad?” Peter questions as Steve eases him into the bed, one hand curled around the back of his neck to support his lolling head. “Y'okay?”

Tony smiles at him. “Yeah, Bambi, I'm fine. You?”

He groans a little and lets out a gusty sigh. “Nauseated again. Yay.”

“Run roughshod by a life-form you can't even see,” Tony says, tsking and shaking his head.

“Better than being run roughshod by Justin Hammer,” Peter says and Steve barks out a surprised laugh. Tony makes a scandalized noise.

“Who even told you about that scumbag?” Tony demands.

Peter's chuckles are cut short by a jaw-cracking yawn. “Could sleep for a week,” he mumbles around the tail end of it.

“Why don't you do that, smartass,” Tony says. Steve retreats from the bed to give Bruce a little room to work and Tony lets him envelop him, chest against Tony's back so they can both watch while Peter yawns as Bruce slides an IV into the back of his hand.

Steve's holding on a little tighter than usual and Tony can feel the tension humming through him everywhere they touch. He leans his head into Steve's jaw and murmurs for both of them, “He's gonna be fine.”

“I don't doubt it, but I still don't want you to go,” Steve admits in a low voice, like it's a dirty secret. It's not often he voices selfish thoughts like that, he likes to keep his shame private, and a small spark of warmth kindles in Tony's chest, the way it does every time Steve demonstrates his trust like that.

“Believe me, no one's less excited about this than I am,” he mutters.

“All right, Dads,” Bruce says, turning to them with a crooked smile. “He's all set. I'll be out in the lab if you have any questions.”

“Thank you, Bruce,” Steve says. “And I'm sorry about earlier.”

Bruce waves off his apology. “This is—it's nothing, really.” He shrugs and glances over his shoulder. “It's Peter.”

“Gee,” Peter says, blinking drowsily at him, “don't I feel special.”

“All right, that's enough out of you,” Tony growls and hops up on the bed, shuffling forward on his knees. “Budge over you little brat. There's enough room on this bed for someone three times the size of your scrawny butt, how are you taking up so much of it?” Peter moans and groans, but he wriggles over and Tony snaps his fingers at Steve, then points at the other side of the bed. “Come on, you too.”

Steve joins them without protest and they squash Peter in between them, Tony lifting his arm to give him room and then crushing him against his side, chin hooked over his head.

He can't believe he has to _leave_.

“Ow, Dad, jeez, if you want to squeeze something make Dad go get Mr. Waddles.”

Tony ignores him because Peter's arm has snaked around his back and he's dug his fingers into Tony's shirt. He presses a kiss to Peter's forehead and says, “Look, I won't be gone long and you're gonna be fine because Bruce and Betty are almost as smart as I am—”

“Nice, Dad.”

“—and Steve will be here—” He loosens his grip on Peter just enough to find Steve's hand so he can give it a rough squeeze. “—and it really, really sucks that I have to go when you're sick like this, but I'll get what needs to be done finished as fast as I can. Two or three days, tops, Pepper willing. I just—”

He squeezes Peter again. “I'm lucky, all right, I've still got you guys, despite living in the middle of a shitstorm and there are a bunch of kids in Australia who haven't got that luxury anymore and I have to say I'm sorry about that.”

“Dad,” Peter mumbles into his shoulder, “it's okay. I'm fifteen, not five. I get it.”

“Don't remind me,” Tony growls.

Peter squirms impossibly closer and curls up against Tony's side, the tips of his unruly hair resting tickling the line of Tony's goatee. Now that they've stopped talking he's already fast succumbing to sleep. Tony soothes his hand up and down Peter's arm and kisses him again and again, just because Peter's here and alive and, god, thank _God._ If something ever happened to him—

He cuts off that line of thought savagely.

Australia's going to be bad enough without starting that shit.

Despite his effusive shower of affection, Peter drops off, mouth hanging open slightly. Tony brushes the pad of his thumb so lightly across the dark half-moons under Peter's eyes and feels his stomach tie itself up. _Fuck,_ he doesn't want to go.

Then Steve reaches for his hand and for a minute their twined fingers rest over Peter's stomach.

“Go, Tony,” Steve says. “Go do what you need to so you can come home.”

Carefully, Tony eases Peter over to Steve's shoulder and then leans across him to kiss Steve, pressing into his mouth harder than is really necessary, until it hurts, and Steve's fingers are tight enough to bruise on his hand.

Then he rips himself away. “Okay,” he says breathlessly. “Keep me updated.”

“Absolutely,” Steve says, nodding solemnly. Tony's eyes catch on the red, shiny gloss of his lips.

“I love you,” he croaks.

Steve smiles. “I'll see you soon.”

Tony nods and finally, finally leaves them. There's a sick, twisted feeling somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach he can't shake. The sooner this is over the better.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings.
> 
> I got his all ready last night so I could easily post today and then FORGOT TO POST IT.

Peter wakes up, but it doesn't feel like waking up.

His limbs feel heavy, and he has to think hard to move them even a little. Making his eyes open is so difficult.

It's mostly dark, but there's a small light at the far end of the room. Peter grimaces and squints at it, confused. He doesn't have a light there in his bedroom.

After pulling his covers away to look, Peter realizes it's shining through glass. This isn't his room.

He remembers the movies, and the seizure, his dads sitting with him.

“Crap,” he whispers to himself and buries his face in the pillow.

It aches when he drags himself up to check the bedside table for his phone. To his relief, it's there next to the equipment. There's a Post-It note stuck to the screen that says _wouldn't want you to go into withdrawals._ It's Darcy's handwriting.

When he peels the note off, the screen lights up, three unread messages appearing.

**Gwen 19:33  
February 11, 2031 **

_I hope you're feeling better. I'm sorry I said  
you were stupid. _

**Gwen 19:33  
February 11, 2031 **

_but not telling them was stupid._

**Gwen 19:36  
February 11, 2031 **

_if you don't text me back tomorrow, i'm_   
_going to assume you can't and start_   
_calling your family members_

Peter huffs a faint laugh. He texts back: _you've reached the ghost of Peter, i'm currently learning what ectoplasm is, and will get back to you shortly_

Then he thumbs over to Scabel's feed of messages and types, _looks like i'm a resister—had a seizure yesterday_

He sighs and pulls his blanket up again. No wonder the process has been taking so long.

~

The next morning Steve gets a text from Tony just after ten.

**Tony 10:06  
February 12, 2031 **

_just landed. what'd I miss?_

Steve smiles and texts back:

_Not much. No more seizures. Peter slept  
through the night. _

**Tony 10:07  
February 12, 2031 **

_makes one of us anyway. I slept like shit._

Steve grimaces. He hadn't expected much else, not with everything that was going on, but he had kind of hoped Tony was wiped out enough. Silly, considering Tony's primary reaction to stress is sleeplessness.

**Tony 10:08  
February 12, 2031 **

_put on about a gallon of foundation, now_   
_were off to meet the then a meet & greet with_   
_the families. what are you doing?_

Steve glances up from the phone as he steps out the doors of Avengers Tower and shivers as the wind whips him in the face, icy tendrils slipping past his collar. He flips up the one on his jacket and zips it up tight before he steps out onto the busy sidewalk and looks down at the phone again.

 _On my way to Chirelli's,_ he types, apologizing when he bumps a passerby.

Tony's next text doesn't come until he's walking through the polished brass doors, sighing in relief at the heat that draws him in.

**Tony 10:11  
February 12, 2031 **

_you bastard. we haven't gone in weeks and_   
_you're going without me? I am scandalized._   
_look how scandalized I am._

A second later he gets a photo from Tony, in which he's wearing a wide-eyed o-mouthed expression that makes Steve laugh.

_Pete asked for a hot chocolate. I couldn't say no._

He's been meaning to rope the two of them into going for awhile now because it's one of the few places they can go and pretend for a little while that they're a regular family with regular problems. A worm of guilt wriggles unpleasantly through his gut because he knows behind Tony's playful outrage there's a seed of real disappointment.

_We'll go together when you get back. My treat._

**Tony 10:12  
February 12, 2031 **

_damn straight._

Steve joins the line for the café—there's another for just the bakery and he's never seen either of them less than twenty people deep. One of the employees, a young woman with dark brown skin and a neatly pinned puff of hair on the left side of her head beneath the Chirelli trademark bowler, flashes a gleaming smile and calls, “Long time no see, Captain!”

A few heads swivel to look and Steve ducks his head instinctively, but smiles, waving in return. However, today the crowd seems to be filled with New Yorkers and even the most interested lookers turn back to what they were doing after a moment.

Chirelli's is an old-world style place with a wall of enormous arched windows overlooking the street, embedded in walls the color of butter, trimmed with embellishments the golden hue of croissants, and milk marble counter tops. The employees wear pristine white uniforms, neatly pressed half aprons falling to the shins of their crisp black slacks and military-shined dress shoes. There's no music because even if there were it would be impossible to hear over the call and response of orders being taken and the bubbly, exuberant chatter of those in line or sitting at the clusters of tables just past the long pastry counter.

“How are you?” the girl asks. “Where are Peter and Tony?”

“Tony's working,” Steve replies. “Peter's sick. That's why I'm here. He asked for a Chirelli's hot cocoa.”

She smiles, dark eyes twinkling. “Can do. Anything else?”

Steve glances at the cases and up at the menu and says, “I don't suppose you know everyone's usual?”

She grins. “I'm sure the five of us can put our heads together.”

~

“Yesss,” Peter says when Steve returns and hands over his hot cocoa. He accepts it with two hands. “Thanks, Dad.”

“You're welcome,” he murmurs. Steve takes Peter's free hand in his own and runs the pads of his fingers over the smooth skin covering the small bones of his hand. Peter's got pianist's hands—slender, but strong and deft like Tony's. They'd been as long as the first knuckle of Steve's thumb when Peter was born, unbelievably tiny and silky to the touch. They're rougher now, bigger, but they still fit inside his palm, easy. Peter's nowhere near done growing so it's possible one day that won't be true anymore.

He curls his hand around Peter's, trying to memorize the way it feels tucked inside his.

Steve's going to miss this. Peter already refuses to hold his hand where anyone might see and Steve knows it won't be long before he'll stop allowing it all together.

He's stroking the coarse hairs on the back of Peter's wrist, the ones that grow thicker and darker every day it seems like, when Peter nudges his arm with the cup. A flush creeps up Steve's neck.

“I can hear you brooding, Dad,” Peter says.

“I'm not,” Steve protests. “I'm just—”

“Trying to find the meaning of the universe in my arm hair?”  
  
Steve huffs and rolls his eyes. He's been in the practice of expressing himself, plainly as he can, ever since he woke up and found out all the chances he'd missed out on because he'd believed there'd be time later. He's been determined to never stand in his own way like that again, but somehow Tony's flippancy in the face of vulnerability has rubbed off on Peter instead. So Peter squirms when Steve looks him in the eye and says, “Just trying to remember how this feels. I know you're not going to stand for it much longer. I'm going to miss things like this.”

“What, me being bedridden?” Peter says, his eyes dropping and bouncing off of their entwined hands.

Steve doesn't let him get away with the deflection, just like he doesn't let Tony. “No. Holding your hand.” Peter colors a little and Steve leans forward and kisses his forehead, feels a pang of worry at how hot his skin is. “I love you, Pete, always have and I always will. Doesn't make it easier, watching you outgrow me.”

Peter looks up at him through his eyelashes, reproving. He looks exactly like Tony when he does that. “Don't be stupid, Dad. I'm never gonna outgrow you.” He loops his arms around Steve's neck and for a second, nothing else matters.

“You know how much your dad and I love you, don't you, Peter?” he asks, quiet.

Peter snorts and squeezes him a little bit tighter. “Dad, there are a lot of things I have doubts about, but that is _never_ going to be one of them.”

~

It's been a long time since Tony felt like he deserved to be called The Merchant of Death, but today he feels it every inch.

Seventeen people are dead.

The investigator that had been injured the day before had suffered a concussion in the secondary explosion and while he and Pepper flew over New Zealand, complications arose, setting off a chain of increasingly desperate attempts to reverse the effects to no avail. He'd died as they were landing.

Tony can't even fully pin that one on Bradford. The safety of the building should have been verified before anyone went in.

It's too little too late, but Tony makes sure the first thing he does on arrival is put on the suit and go to the factory to _personally_ ascertain whether or not the facility is safe enough for a new team of investigators to do their thing. Pepper isn't happy about it, but he spends the first seven hours of the trip going through the factory inch by inch scanning for potential hazards. He even streams a live feed of the process to the investigators and the board to ensure no one can accuse him of tampering with evidence.

All he cares about is making sure no one else dies.

Pepper has arranged to have a Rhys Barker suit in his size delivered to the hotel by the time he joins her in just in time for the morning edition press conference, insisting that being seen wearing a suit made by the nation's current darling designer will earn him a few brownie points with the Australian people, and he needs all the brownie points he can get. It's black—everything he's wearing is, actually—and tapered at the ankles, which isn't a look Tony's particularly fond of, but after an hour with a tailor he has to admit it's a sharp, sleek design. It makes his shoulders broad and his waist _tiny._ Like, he's almost got _Steve's_ proportions in the thing, and Steve's hip-to-waist ratio is worshiped by designers the world over.

He and Pepper have prepped in exhausting detail for every imaginable question the reporters can throw at them, but twenty minutes in, Tony gets a question neither of them could have anticipated.

“Mister Stark!” one of the American guys shouts. Tony points at him, holding back a grimace as best he can, because he recognizes him and he's one of the biggest creeps they have to put up with. It's better to hear what the jackass has to say now, or he'll just get more irritating. Around him, the other reporters settle down, going quiet in deference so when Kenmore speaks, his voice rings through the room.

“How does your husband feel about taking care of your sick kid when you're halfway around the world?”

Tony stills; no one should know about Peter. How the _fuck_ does he know? He nearly blurts that out loud, but manages to stifle the urge at the last second. The reporters have scented blood in the water though.

He wants to lie, to tell them Peter isn't sick, he's just taking a few personal days and it's none of their business because the last thing he wants is for reporters to be beating down the doors while Pete's feeling under the weather and Steve's stressed to begin with. But if he lies and they find out Peter _was_ sick, it'll be an even bigger nightmare.

Pepper touches his arm, a warning and a show of support all at once, and he attempts to keep the enmity out of his voice. He does, really. He shifts on his feet and starts to say, “Are you trying to tell me you think Steve—”

But he's been quiet too long and the guy barrels on, demands, “Do you think he resents being turned into Susie Homemaker?”

This is an old hat line of questioning—Tony's not sure what the public's obsession with turning Steve into a doting housewife is, but everything questions like these imply is just flat out stupid. “Okay,” he says with a little more peevishness than he really means to, “Number one, if he _were_ Susie Homemaker, he'd do it better than she did, and be doing it because he _wanted_ to, so if you're trying to be insulting you're not doing a very good job. And number _two_ , Steve and I share parenting duties equally and I'd be there _right now_ , but I feel it is my dutyto support our Stark Industries family and the families of the people who so tragically lost their lives in this incident. So if we could get back to talking about _that_ instead of my personal life—”

“Does that mean you place your 'Stark Industries family' above your own family?”

Tony has to bite his cheek to keep from snapping. “No,” he says, enunciating very carefully. “It means right now Peter is doing better than Stark Industries is and _therefore,_ I have prioritized accordingly. Kids get sick and he's being treated and he's doing fine. Just because he's got superheroes for parents doesn't make him immune to the sniffles. Next question.”

Unfortunately, nobody else steps up with a question that's actually _relevant_ because Kenmore might be the king asshole, but the rest of them are still reporters and they're all leaning forward, vultures with their recorders posed to catch this juicy complication. Kenmore presses on, “So you're not worried?”

“Of course I am, he's my goddamn kid.” Pepper's hand tightens around his elbow and Tony has to deliberately loosen his fingers on the lectern and lean back. He rolls his shoulders, trying to dispel some of the tension that's gathered between them.

“And you're saying it's not serious, even though it's been a week since he was last seen in public?”

Surprised whispers ripple through the crowd and one voice rises up from the back. “Is that true?”  
  
“He was last seen leaving from school Friday night,” Kenmore replies.

Pepper speaks up before Tony can. “People, can we please get back to the reason we're here?”

But Kenmore just turns back with that goddamn _gleam_ in his eye that says he's got something else up his sleeve, something _good_. “So you have no comment on his deteriorating condition?”

A wave of dread turns Tony's stomach to ice. That's not—that can't be right. Steve would have _called_. He wouldn't _not_ have called him if Peter had gotten worse. There's no way.

His hand gropes at his jacket pockets as Kenmore says with a growing sense of delight,“You didn't know.” He pushes forward between two of the other reporters as Tony finally finds his phone. “Let me ask you again, Mister Stark. Is your company more important to you than your family?”

Tony decks him.

“ _Tony!”_ Pepper shrieks in concert with the throbbing of his knuckles and the entire press corps erupting into shouting, gasping, horrified mayhem.

“Shut your _goddamn mouth,_ ” he pants at Kenmore, sprawled on the floor at his feet, one hand cupping his jaw, his beady little eyes defiant.

“Tony,” Pepper barks and grabs hold of his arm, yanking him back behind the lectern.

“Pepper—” he starts, raising his voice, but she just squeezes and looks up at him from beneath her brows and says, “Go. Go to the car now. Call Steve and find out what's happened.”

The reminder of what came before drains the fury out of him in a rush, leaving him weak-kneed.

“Go,” Pepper urges, more gently.

“Thanks, Pep,” he rasps and she sighs.

“Thank me when this is all over.” Then she turns and raises one hand, calling over the uproar, “QUIET; EVERYONE PLEASE CALM DOWN.”

Tony slips out the side door, heart in his throat.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings.

“Aw, no,” Johnny Storm says when Steve tells the Fantastic Four Peter's been feeling under the weather. “That sucks! I was gonna take him...” He trails off suddenly when he catches Steve's eye and finishes lamely, “Uhhh, to the skate park. I was gonna take him to the skate park. That's too bad.”

Steve struggles to keep from rolling his eyes. He knows Johnny takes Peter out to the outskirts of town sometimes so the pair of them can experiment with his powers. People have told him Storm could be his twin, but Steve doesn't see it. “I really should have given you guys a heads up sooner, but it's been kind of a crazy week.”

“That nutbar Loki with the frogs in the park Thursday,” Ben says, waving one enormous orange finger, “I passed through when your guys were cleaning up.”

“We heard about Australia, too,” Susan adds, eyes soft and sympathetic. “It's awful.”

“If Tony hadn't appointed him in the first place, this could have been prevented,” Richards mutters and Susan hisses, “ _Reed!_ ”

He glances up from whatever he's been working on, blinking, and seems to realize who he's talking to. Steve appreciates that Tony only ever ignores people that completely on purpose. A faint flush creeps across Richards' cheekbones. “Ah. Sorry, Steve,” he mumbles. “That was a stupid thing to say.”

Steve waves a hand before he can start trying to make apologies he doesn't mean. He doesn't _like_ to hear Richards criticize Tony, but Tony does antagonize him every chance he gets, so he can't really blame him either. The two of them _really_ don't get along.

“Right,” Richards says, pulling his glasses off to clean them unnecessarily. “Well, barring an interstellar invasion or the like, it shouldn't be a problem for us to take point while Peter is ill.”

“And if you need anything at all, you just let us know,” Susan says. “We're happy to help.”

“Have you spoken to Xavier?”

“Not yet,” Steve says. “I planned to after school let out.”

Richards nods and Steve can already see him drifting away again. “Good. That should be fine then.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, sincere as he can be. “I hate to put you out.”

Ben rolls his eyes. “Don't be stupid. We're not gonna let the city get destroyed on account of your kid having the flu. Besides, you've saved our asses more than a few times in the past.”

Steve smiles wryly. “You're not wrong.”

Ben huffs, his mouth curling in a grin and Steve allows them to shepherd him into the elevator, saying, “Well, thanks fellas, Susan; I really appreciate—”

AC/DC starts wailing in his pocket at full volume and all five of them flinch.

“Sorry!” Steve half-yells over it, hastily pulling his phone from the pocket of his jacket. He answers because he doesn't remember leaving the volume up that high and Tony is a dogged son of a bitch. “You know I hate it when you do that,” he says in lieu of a greeting.

“ _Steve!”_ Tony barks and the tone of his voice makes Steve tense. “ _Peter's worse!?”_

He experiences a moment of frozen abject horror before his head starts working again and he says, “Bruce. Bruce or Betty—”

“ _Way ahead of you,”_ Tony says, voice taut, then: “ _Goddammit, pick up, Banner!”_

“ _Hey, Steve,”_ Bruce says when he does at last, but it's absently said. He may not actually be aware he did so, probably just agreed to take the call when JARVIS asked.

“ _Hey! Get your head out of whatever science cloud you've shoved it up and tell us what the hell is going on with Peter!”_

“Why didn't you call me?” Steve demands and Bruce says, bewildered, “ _Tony? Nothing's wrong with P—”_

“ _Then why the hell is he deteriorating?!”_

“I don't understand why you wouldn't call _,”_ Steve says. “Where is he?”

“ _I don't know what you're talking about,”_ Bruce replies, frustration leaking out in his voice.

“ _I thought you said he was fine!”_ Tony yells.

“Was it another seizure?” Steve asks with dawning horror and hears Tony make a strangled noise.

“ _No!”_ Bruce shouts, “ _I'm telling you he was—”_

Abruptly his voice goes quiet and muffled, though Steve can still hear the way it's growing increasingly distraught as he continues to speak to someone at the other end.

“ _Bruce!”_ Tony barks, angry and afraid in equal measures, “ _Come on, what is going_ on _with you!”_

And then the line clears again and Steve hears a female voice, distant: “— _take care of it, You're all right_ ,” and closer: “ _I realize you two are under a lot of stress right now, but I swear to God, I will not hesitate to drug you and drag your bodies into the bathtub to practice vivisection, do you understand me?_ ” It's Betty, and she sounds like a bag full of wet cats. Tony manages to get out one syllable before she snaps, “ _Shut. Up. JARVIS says that Peter is_ fine _, but I am on my way this instant, to see for myself. What the hell is wrong with both of you that you think we wouldn't let you know the moment that changes?_ ”

Steve doesn't say anything, guilt curling low and heavy in his belly. Tony says, “ _I— I just— Shit. There was this reporter and—”_

“ _A_ reporter?” Betty says and it's crystal clear how stupid she thinks he sounds.

Tony seems to realize it, too, because he goes conspicuously quiet.

“ _All right,”_ Betty says. “ _I am looking at Peter right now and his condition appears unchanged. Peter, speak to your fathers, but go slowly and use four-letter words because they are displaying the mental aptitude of_ earthworms.”

There's a long pause and then Peter says, “... _so what did you guys do to piss off Aunt Betty?”_

Shame burns the back of Steve's neck. “We...may have overreacted.”

“ _Slightly,”_ Tony puts in, grudgingly. “ _Very slightly._ ”

“ _Well, way to go. Her face was like, fuchsia. I think you guys are in the dog house.”_

Steve grimaces and says, “But...you feel okay?”

“ _Is_ that _what this is about? No wonder she's pissed. Come on, really, Dads?”_  
  
“ _Shut up,”_ Tony says. “ _It's bad enough getting lectured by her. We don't need to hear it from a pukey teenager.”_

“ _You guys would be the first to know if something happened. You_ know _that. Grow up. And, yes, I'm fine. I mean, I'm still achy and tired and this rash is like being covered in mosquito bites, but, yeah, I'm fine. Chill out.”_

Steve sighs. “You're right, and we'll try our best. I'll be home in a little over a half an hour. We love you.”

“ _Yeah, love you, buddy.”_

“ _Yeah, yeah, I love you, too. Better prep some really good apologies, that's all I'm saying.”_

He hangs up and Steve realizes he's still standing in the elevator, which has arrived at the lobby God only knows when. Reed is standing half in and half out, holding the doors, and they're all trying very hard to pretend like they weren't listening.

“ _Well, that was a clusterfuck_ ,” Tony sighs in his ear.

“Hang on, Tony,” Steve says and presses the phone to his chest. “I'm sorry,” he says to the others. “I'm very sorry.”

“Is everything okay?” Sue asks. 

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Yeah, everything's fine. There was just...a failure to communicate.”

“Good movie,” Johnny says.

“Y'didn't upset Banner, didja?” Ben asks giving him a leery look.

Steve grimaces. “We did, but I think Betty's managed to calm him down.”

“That girl is a downright saint,” Ben says.

“No,” Steve says, “she just loves him, that's all.” He glances around at them and says, “Anyway, thanks again, guys, and I'm sorry for my rudeness. I'll keep you posted, all right?”

“That sounds just fine,” Sue says and leans up on her tip toes to kiss his cheek. “Give Peter our best.”

“See ya later, Cap, it was good to see you,” Johnny adds, reaching to pump his hand enthusiastically.

“Don't forget to call Xavier,” Richards says and Steve nods dutifully before finally prying himself away. He waits until he's stepped out the front doors to lift the phone back to his ear.

“Tony?”

“ _Yeah, hey, hi, I'm still here. You finally get away from the Failtastic Four?”_

“Tony,” he admonishes and slows warily as he approaches the curb where a black limo has just pulled up directly in his path. It stops and the door swings open.

Peering out at him from inside with a very peeved expression is Nick Fury.

“Captain,” he calls. “Get in.”

Steve doesn't see Happy anywhere and Fury looks like he might chase him down if he tries to make a break for it, so he does as he's told and climbs into the limo.

“Is that your pain in the ass of a husband?” Fury asks when the door's closed behind him.  
  
“ _Is that_ Fury?” Tony echoes incredulously, “ _Where the hell did he come from?”_

“Yes,” Steve says, in reply to them both. Nick smiles a dangerous, mirthless smile and taps the seat between them.

“Put him on speaker phone.”

“ _Don't do it, don't do it, Steve—”_ but he does, setting the phone on the seat as indicated. Tony sighs gustily in resignation.

“Mister Stark,” Fury says brightly, “why don't you tell your beloved here what you just did in front of God and everybody?”

Steve frowns, glancing up at Fury. “Tony? What's going on?”

Tony says, _“Okay, look, that jerk Kenmore was here.”_

Kenmore. Steve's jaw clenches. Kenmore has been a thorn in the side of the Avengers for over a decade, acting more like the most invasive kind of paparazzi than a professional news reporter. At one press conference when Peter was ten, the guy had badgered Peter to the brink of tears with questions about whether or not he ever felt responsible for the people his dads couldn't help because they were “stuck” caring for him.  
  
He's not popular, even amongst the other reporters, but apparently he gets valuable material despite skating the ethics razor's-edge because he's still staffed.

“What did he want?” Steve asks.

“ _Apparently he wanted to get socked in the mouth_ ,” Tony mutters and Fury presses, “Tell him what you _did,_ Stark.”

“ _I punched him, all right?”_ Tony bursts. “ _He was implying I don't care about Peter and I punched him in his goddamn face.”_

A smile breaks across Steve's face, which he knows instantly is the wrong reaction and he reaches up to cover it with his hand. “Tony,” he says and he's trying to sound disapproving, but he's not sure he succeeds.

Tony confirms his failure. Steve can hear the grin in his voice when he says, “ _You like that, don't you? You're happy I hit him. You're probably sorry I didn't hit him harder. I almost broke my hand, I'll have you know. I split the skin in two places!”_

Fury makes a disbelieving noise. “Am I hearing what I think I'm hearing? _Captain._ ”

Steve shrugs. “He's been asking for it for years, sir. You should be happy it was Tony and not me. At least people expect outrageous from Tony. I've sure thought about giving it to him myself before.”

The sheer amount of _why in God's name, me_ in Fury's responding sigh is impressive, Steve thinks.

“ _Steve hates bullies, remember, Fury,”_ Tony puts in helpfully. Fury glares at the cellphone.

“Well, _that_ bully is part of the United States Press Corps, and if they don't try to throw your ass in jail, you will be very lucky indeed, Stark. We do not fight _civilians_ at _press conferences._ ”

“ _He started it.”_

“Tony,” Steve says, “Don't punch anyone else.”

“ _Yeah, yeah, no more punching, fine, whatever.”_ There's a rustling noise and Tony says something Steve can't quite make out. “ _All right, Pep's done cleaning up the mess as best she can for now, I should go.”_

“I love you,” Steve says, ignoring Fury's eye roll.

“ _Love you, too. You swear you'll call me the second anything changes? Swear, Steve.”_

“Dammit, you bastard, I fucking swear,” Steve replies gravely and smiles at the small huff of laughter he earns from Tony.

“ _All right,”_ Tony says. “ _Reprimand noted, Fury. I will restrain myself from any further punching of asshole reporters, no matter how deserving they may be.”_

“That's all I ask,” Fury drawls.

Steve taps the call screen closed and tucks the phone back into his jacket pocket. Fury eyeballs him, taking his measure and eventually says, softer, “How's he doing anyway?”

Steve sighs and worries his fingers over the hem of his jacket cuffs. “Not great,” he admits. “He's got a temperature, been throwing up. Had a seizure the other night.” The smile that breaks across his face is humorless, strained. “I dunno, he's got Bruce and Betty looking after him, so he'll be all right. It's just the flu and a spider bite. He's a tough kid.”

“He is that,” Fury says, but he looks worried just the same and it makes Steve uneasy. “If they need any help, you just let me know.”

Steve nods and swallows. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Can't have anything happening to him, distracting my varsity team.” Fury pats Steve's knee roughly and the car rolls to a stop. He makes a shooing motion. “All right, git.”  
  
Huffing, Steve nods again. “Yes, sir.” He turns and pushes the door of the car open and immediately, he's blinded by flashbulbs going off.

“CAPTAIN, CAPTAIN, HAVE YOU HEARD ABOUT THE INCIDENT AT THE PRESS CONFERENCE IN AUSTRALIA?”

“DO YOU CONDONE WHAT YOUR HUSBAND DID TO KENMORE?”

“IS THERE ANY TRUTH TO WHAT KENMORE WAS SAYING, IS PETER ILL? HOW BADLY?”

“WILL WHAT'S HAPPENED AFFECT YOUR ABILITY TO PROTECT THE CITY OF NEW YORK, AS YOU'VE SWORN TO DO?”

It's a mob of chaos, people shouting at him from every direction and the flashes of cameras going off every few seconds. Steve tries to shield his eyes and starts toward the doors of the Tower, pressing through the crowd by virtue of his sheer bulk. He tries to calmly answer questions as he goes. “Yes, Peter is feeling under the weather. The Fantastic Four are aware of the situation and have agreed to step up, should it become necessary. Peter is _fine_ , we just don't want to expose other kids to whatever bug he's caught.”

“WHAT WILL YOU DO IF CHARGES ARE BROUGHT AGAINST YOUR HUSBAND?”

“IS THERE ANY TRUTH TO WHAT KENMORE SAYS? DO YOU FEEL RESENTFUL BECAUSE HE'S LEFT YOU BEHIND, ALONE, WITH YOUR SICK CHILD?”

“Absolutely not!” Steve barks and stops dead because he can't let that slide. “Peter is not a burden we pass back and forth. He's our son and we take care of him out of love, not out of obligation. There are other families in Australia suffering because they've endured devastating losses. I can only imagine the kind of pain they're going through. Tony is exactly where he should be and anyone who thinks differently is kidding themselves. Now if you'll _excuse me_ , I'd like to get back in to see my son.”

The shouting crescendos around him, but Steve sets his jaw and forges his way through the rest of the crowd, slipping through the doors and into the quiet of the lobby. He lets out a breath as they close behind him, sealing out the last of the mad roaring of the press. He's not sorry Tony punched Kenmore, not a bit, if the questions he was hearing were anything to go by. He sends Tony a quick text that reads, _Definitely should have punched him harder._

He's just a few feet from the elevator when JARVIS says, in an unusually urgent tone, “Captain Rogers, you are needed on the fourteenth floor immediately.”

Before he's even finished speaking, Steve's phone has started to ring. It's Bruce.

Cold starts to spread from his gut outward.

“ _Steve? Where are you?”_ Bruce demands, the instant he's answered the call.

“I'm getting on the elevator now. What—”

“ _I've got something you need to see.”_


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter.
> 
> Sorry about being late! I'm in Canada visiting and I went to the Night Vale live show last night after a long day of sight seeing and then Ao3 was fussing BUT HERE IT IS.

** Doc 14:22  
February 12, 2031 **

_ Your illness is being reported in the news. _

** Doc 14:22  
February 12, 2031 **

_ How do they know? Have your fathers found out? _

** Doc 14:22  
February 12, 2031 **

_ They don't seem to have any details. _

** Doc 14:22  
February 12, 2031 **

_ There's footage of your father assaulting a reporter. _

** Doc 14:23  
February 12, 2031 **

_ Peter, are you all right? _

~

Tony hisses at the sting of the alcohol on his knuckles, but Pepper resists his attempts to pull away, giving him a stern look. "Tony. Stop squirming unless you really want to show solidarity with Peter by getting your own infection."

He glares at her, but it lacks any real heat. Also, she isn't entirely wrong. He doesn't need to add unnecessary complications to an already FUBAR week.

He focuses instead on his phone, sitting innocuously on his knee between his fingers, frustratingly blank. He's torn on whether he wants it to ring or not because obviously he doesn't want Peter to get worse, but it would be kind of nice to have an excuse to go home.

Normally he loves visiting Australia, but not when Peter's sick at home and he's here because people are dead—people he should have been able to protect, even if it wasn't in his armor—and all he can think about right now is how much fun he and Steve and Peter had had when they came here last summer for the factory opening and snorkeled on the Great Barrier Reef and climbed the bridge in Sydney Harbor. He has pictures of Peter feeding kangaroos and holding a koala and tripping on his ass when a giant spider crawled out of a hole in the ground on a hike into the bush. That had been terrifying when it happened, but hilarious when it was over and no one had died at the mandibles of killer Australian wildlife.

And now another spider _has_ bitten Peter—and, seriously what is it with the kid and spiders?

Whatever, not important. The important thing is that Tony isn't feeling the love for the Southern Continent this time and he wants to go home.

Pepper finishes his knuckles, bandaging them and giving his fingers a squeeze. He glances at her and smiles, then goes back to staring at his phone.

"Sorry about the..." he waves and she sighs.

"I know you are, Tony, and, though I still maintain it was a stupid response, I don't blame you. He was baiting you and, frankly, it's his own damn fault he got what he deserved."

Tony grunts, vaguely amused. "You think he'll stop?"

"After a decade? No. That hope died long ago. At this point, I just hope that eventually someone over him will realize he is an idiot and reassign him to a more deserving post. Like the gossip section."

Tony chuckles, a little surprised he's capable of that, and Pepper pats his knee and smiles at him. It fades after a moment and she nods at his phone. "How is he?"

Tony clears his throat. "He's, uh, not in the hospital."

She rolls her eyes. "I sort of assumed that wasn't true, given that Steve hadn't called you," she says, just a hint of dry sarcasm, and Tony flushes because, as always, she's far more rational and put together than he is.

She nudges his knee and says, "Is he doing any better, though?"

Tony shrugs, looking out the window, but not really seeing the city as they drive by. "Not really. But, hey, stable is better than—" His phone rings then, the old-fashioned bell ringer that's reserved for Steve and Tony's throat closes off abruptly.

He stares at the vibrating device as it travels over his knee but doesn't—can't—move until it starts to slide off and he lunges to catch it before it hits the carpet.

He fumbles it, his fingers not responding as he wants to flip it over and turn it around and it hasn't even been ten minutes, has it!? What the hell is— His fingers finally work enough to get the phone oriented and he stabs one numb digit at the answer button. "Steve?"

He can hear Pepper saying something, but it isn't until she leans close and squeezes his shoulder that he turns and is able to hear her.

"Breathe, Tony. Breathe."

He gulps and chokes, but forces his lungs to slow down their panting pace, deeper breaths shuddering in and out of his lungs. "What's wrong?" he asks, and only then realizes that Steve is already talking.

“— _radiation, Tony, they found radiation in Peter's blood what does that even mean?_ ”

A wave of cold prickles over Tony's skin.  
  
Radiation, does that mean—  
  
"He came into contact with Bruce's...no, that's. That's impossible. He can't've. Bruce is too goddamn careful." 

" _That's what Betty's trying to tell him_ ," Steve says and he sounds beat. " _That can't be where it came from. Like you said, Bruce is too careful._ " 

"He wouldn't even hold Peter when he was a baby!" Tony practically yells.  
  
" _That's what I said_ ," Steve sighs. " _But they can't figure out how else he might have been exposed, he's been in the Tower for the last week_."  
  
Tony waves his hands at Pepper until she produces his bag and he digs out one of the tablets, setting it on his knees. He taps the surface and spreads his fingers, which prompts a holographic display. "JARVIS, get me the data," he orders and then to Steve says, "You said traces? Traces of radiation right? That's not— Traces are okay, there are traces everywhere. Is it even gamma?" 

" _No, that's why Betty thinks it can't have been Bruce. It's not gamma and it's acting strange_."  
  
Acting—  
  
"I want to talk to him," Tony says.  
  
" _You can't_ ," Steve says, " _he's... He had to step away_." 

"Well, shit," Tony says and scrubs his free hand over his face. "Peter's still... Peter's still fine though, right? I mean, aside from the fact that he's apparently very slightly radioactive—"  
  
" _Yes, aside from that, he seems the same_ ," Steve replies dryly.  
  
"Tony," Pepper says, touching his knee with the end of her stylus, "we're almost there."  
  
"Shit," Tony says again. "Steve, I have to go."  
  
" _You have to go?_ " Steve repeats and Tony's heart twists roughly behind the arc reactor, because that's the voice Tony only ever hears when Steve is depending on him, when he's reluctantly given up his sense of control and put something in Tony's hands. He _hates_ disappointing that voice.  
  
"Meet and greet with the families," Tony says, begging him to understand. "I'll call you as soon as it's over. You can still text me. Pepper will have my phone and she'll relay if anything—" His throat closes off around the possibilities.  
  
" _Okay_ ," Steve says, heavy and reluctant. 

They're quiet for a beat, neither one of them wanting to end the call. Then Pepper says, "Tony..."  
  
He growls, frustrated, but not at her and Steve says quietly, " _No, you have to go, Tony_."  
  
Tony grunts because he doesn't want to agree and knows he has to. "All right," he grits finally. "Call me."  
  
And then he hangs up before Steve can reply. He drops the phone, not making it easy for Pepper to catch it, because he's an asshole and there's no other way to get out his frustration. Then he straightens his tie and buttons his jacket and slides his sunglasses into place.  
  
Pepper gives him a once-over. "Get rid of the glasses once we're past the press, you need to let the family members see your eyes."  
  
"Windows to the soul?" he mutters sullenly and she gives him a look.  
  
"No, you have natural doe eyes. It will make them less inclined to punch you in the mouth."  
  
"Right. Wünderbar," he says and then takes a deep breath and steps out of the car. 

~

Peter pokes at the little rectangle in the bottom corner of his bedside display that's labeled _Radiation Levels_ and it expands into a full-sized window scaled to the exact size and shape of the medbay room. The whole thing is a nice, bland, blue-gray color, except for a boy-shaped blob where the bed is that fades from green to yellow in the center of each limb and a darker green man-shape next to the bed. He looks up at Uncle Bruce and quirks an eyebrow. “Does this mean my superhero name is going to be The Human X-Ray?”

It's tough to smother his excitement; this has gotta mean that it's working, he's getting powers.

Bruce's grave expression doesn't so much as twitch. “This is serious, Peter,” he says, his arms crossed tight over his chest. “Radiation is no joke.” His voice vibrates with intensity and a smarter person than Peter would be slinking away right now.

Peter's never been that smart. “But it's not gamma,” he says.

“No,” Bruce replies, “and thank God for that, but that doesn't make it any less worrisome—”

“And you said it's under safe levels.”

“Yes, but we still don't know _where it came from_.”

Well, obviously, since he hasn't told them.

Dad touches Bruce's shoulder and he closes his eyes, taking a slow, unsteady breath.

“Peter.” Dad doesn't say anything else, but Peter knows what he wants. He grimaces and lays back in the pillows, sighing.

Flicking his fingers over the display, he brings up more detailed readings and tries to look attentive and cooperative. “The radiation is concentrated in my bones?”

Bruce takes another breath before he looks up again and sinks onto the edge of the bed. He edges the readings over to the right side of the screen and zooms in on the colored diagram with deft movements. “Yes.” He circles the slightly oranger core of Peter's femur with a gesture. “When you look at the more detailed chart, you can see that the highest concentration is in the center of your bones, which suggests that this radiation is highest in the marrow.”

Peter tilts his head. Doctor S is going to flip his lid over this data. “That doesn't make sense. If I was exposed to radiation the concentration should be evenly distributed through my body.”

Bruce nods and twists his fingers together. “That's exactly what worries me. What we're looking at isn't typical behavior for radioactive material. It's almost like the radiation is coming _from_ your bones.”

“Like my _skeleton_ is radioactive? But that's impossible. Right?” Peter frowns, trying to remember everything he read in the research. He doesn't remember anything about radiation _after_ the bite, but i t's hard to focus with his head still pounding. He rubs his forehead and turns to look for his glasses on the bedside table. Might help if he can see properly. They're not there. “Hey, Dad,” he says absently, squinting at the display, “be a pal and find my glasses, will you?”

A second later they poke him in the shoulder while he's leaning forward trying to will the letters into clarity. He takes them, glancing away and up when his fingers don't close around them the first time and catching sight of his Dad's displeased expression. A wave of guilt laps at his sternum.

“Please and thank you?” he mumbles, too little too late, slipping the glasses onto his nose and dropping his eyes to the bedspread. He hunches his shoulders when Steve doesn't say anything. “Sorry.” He can see the screen clearly now and he flicks a few things around just to have something to do with his hands. The rush of shame is making his head pound harder. “What are you doing here anyway? Don't you have press stuff or something?”

“Well, see, my kid is sick and it seemed more important for me to be there for him, instead of out doing the dancing monkey routine,” he replies, drawling and dry as dust.

Oh, God, guilt mongering has seriously got to be in his superpower repertoire. He's probably going to be crushed by its sheer mass when Dad finds out about the serum.

“Oh,” he manages to mumble. He's relieved when JARVIS speaks up.

“Sir, Miss Stacy is requesting permission to visit.”

“Permission granted!” Peter blurts, starting to paw at his head. “Uncle Bruce, how bad is my hair?”

Bruce starts to open his mouth, but it's his dad who says, “Now hang on a minute, Peter, I don't know if that's such a good idea.”

“What? Why not?”

“You're sick, Peter, we shouldn't expose her to whatever you've got.”

“Oh, come on,” Peter says, and he can hear the whine in his voice, but he doesn't care. He feels lousy and Gwen is here and he wants to see her! “She was already exposed on Monday!” And he's not contagious.

Dad concedes that reluctantly.

“Please?” Peter asks, tilting his head and jutting out his bottom lip for effect. He thinks about adding a pathetic-sounding cough, but figures that'll just make him seem more contagious.

Steve wrinkles his nose, but he can't quite stop a smile from curling the corners of his mouth. He cuts his gaze over to Bruce. “What do you think?”

Bruce shrugs slowly, arms still wrapped around himself. “I don't see why not if we limit contact.” Then, thoughtful, “If she _did_ get sick, that might give us more to work with.”

Steve blinks at him and Bruce's mouth twitches.

“Kidding. I'm only kidding. A second case would be helpful though.”

“All right,” Steve allows at last, “She can stay a half an hour. No touching.”

“A half an hour!” Peter starts to complain, but his dad gives him a look that says he's two wrong words from taking even that away and Peter bites his tongue.

“JARVIS, send her up,” Steve directs. Bruce nudges Peter's shoulder, urging him back into the pillows. 

“You obviously feel a little better, but you still need the rest. Take it easy, okay?”

Peter sighs and resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I've been in bed for, like, a week, isn't that taking it easy enough?”

Steve points a finger at him and says, sharp, “If you don't keep that attitude in check, I'll have JARVIS take Gwen back to the lobby. Sick or not, you don't get to talk to your uncle that way.”

“Okay, sorry!” Peter says and puts a pillow over his head to shut himself up. God, maybe if they weren't all being so _annoying._

He stays under there for a good minute before it gets too boring. When he pokes his head back out, Bruce and his dad are in the lab with Aunt Betty, their heads all bent toward a holoscreen. Gwen steps into the doorway just beyond them and Peter shoves himself upright, ignoring the wave of exhaustion that rolls over him, his heart kicking sluggishly into gear. He runs the fingers of both his hands through his hair in a hurry and clears his throat, trying to settle back against the pillows in a cool sort of way.

In the lab, his dad straightens up and then turns, pointing. Peter swallows when Gwen's gaze meets his, fingers fluttering in a pathetic excuse for a wave. Gwen thanks his dad and smiles at Uncle Bruce and Aunt Betty, answering questions he can't hear. When she gets to the door, Steve turns back, and as it slides open Peter hears him say, “Oh, and Gwen? Hands off this visit, okay?”

Gwen's face turns red and Peter yells, horrified, “ _DAD!_ ”

He just gives him a Look and Peter flops back, groaning.

“Oh my gosh, I'm sorry,” he moans.

Gwen carefully closes the door behind her and says, “Um, don't they know it's already way too late for me if you're contagious?”

“That's what I said!”

“It's sweet of them to worry though,” she adds. Peter huffs.

Gwen stops a few feet from the end of the bed and looks around the room, her amusement fading . She squeezes the stack of books in her arms a little tighter and bites her lip. “So you're getting worse, huh?”

Peter blinks at her and then his mouth drops open. “I forgot to tell you! I'm radioactive now! And I had one minor seizure, but it was just a febrile thing—”

“ _A seizure?_ Peter, oh my god!” Gwen exclaims. “But—are you—you're okay though, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” Peter says, waving off her concern, though it kindles warmth somewhere low in his belly. “It was just the fever.”

Gwen relaxes slightly, sinking into one of the chairs by the bedside and setting the books down in the one next to her. “Wait,” she says as she unwinds her scarf, “Did you say _radioactive?_ ”

“Yeah, come check this out,” Peter says, waving her forward. “It's pretty cool actually.”

Gwen gives him a disbelieving look. “Being radioactive is cool? Being radioactive almost ruined your uncle's life.”

“ _Barely_ radioactive,” Peter corrects her. “And it's not gamma, so no chance of life ruining. Come look!”

Gwen scoots the chair right up to the bed and the two of them look up at a sharp crack of knuckles on the glass. Steve gives them a stern look from the other side.

“We're not touching!” Peter yells. He just gets another warning look in return. 

“Serious business,” Gwen murmurs.

“Serious pain in my butt,” Peter mutters. “ _Anyway._ ”

He pulls up the holoscreen with his bioinformation and shows Gwen how the radiation is concentrated in his bones. When he zooms in to show her how it's highest right in the marrow, she frowns and reaches up to slide the model over a little. “What's this?” she asks as his hand comes into view. “Why is this spot concentrated? What is that?” Gwen reaches for his hand before remembering the No Touching rule and pulling back, glancing to see if Steve saw. Fortunately he's busy with whatever Uncle Bruce and Aunt Betty are discussing.

“A spider bite,” Peter tells her absently. “'s why I got that rash.”

Gwen stares at him, her expression intense. “A radioactive spider bite? Peter—”

He glances over at her, catching on. Oh, crap.

But it's too late, realization is dawning across Gwen's face. “The spiders we saw on the field trip—”

“Were _fake_ ,” he says and laughs, wincing internally at how shrill it is.

Gwen's mouth drops open. “But you went missing after that. You said you ran into Doctor Scabel. You told me he was working on something big, something—something to do with the Fantastic Four and—“ She grabs his hand, heedless of the no touching edict and stares at the bite on his hand. “Radiation. Oh my _god_ , Peter, what did you do?”

“I didn't do anything!” he protests, but he's really an awful, awful liar.

When Gwen presses her lips together, pushing the blood out of them and leaving them white, he glances toward the glass wall, making sure his family is still absorbed in whatever data they're looking at and then whispers, “I did what I had to do, Gwen, okay.”

Gwen slowly shakes her head. She looks horrified and stricken and Peter doesn't understand.

“I looked at the research, Gwen, the science is sound—”

“Oh, Peter,” she breathes, “ _no.”_

The door slides open and both of them jump, turning to see Steve leaning inside with a frown. “I thought I told you no touching.”

Peter flushes, realizing Gwen's fingers are still tight around his wrist. Glancing at her face, he sees her lower lip firm. “Gwen,” he blurts, “no, don't—”

“Captain Rogers, I know why Peter is sick,” she says.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost forgot again, yeesh. BUT hERE we are.
> 
> No chapter warnings.

“Gwen,” Peter pleads, but she refuses to look at him.

His dad goes still, gaze sharpening. He looks between them and then steps inside and closes the door behind him. Peter crosses his arms and feels himself shrink a little when Steve turns his Power Puzzle-Solver face on him.

“Peter, do you want to tell me what she's talking about?”

Peter shakes his head. “No, nope, nope, I think I'm good. There's nothing to tell.” He doesn't know why he says it, because it's over. Gwen's turned on him and he's so, so screwed. He's only making it worse for himself.

Dad looks disappointed, but resigned. “Gwen?” he says.

“I'm sorry, Peter,” she whispers, mouth trembling. “I can't keep this secret for you. I think you knew that, or— You would have told me before.”

His dad is starting to look worried.

Gwen looks up at him, her hands folded tightly in her lap. “There's a man named Doctor Kane Scabel at OsCorp. He works in their genetics division doing experiments with radioactivity and he's the primary scientist who works with their radioactive spider specimens.”

“Radioactive spiders?” Steve says incredulously. “ _Why?_ ” Then Peter sees him put the pieces together. Steve's eyes drop to his hand.

Peter slides it under his elbow.

That brings Steve's eyes up to his. “Scabel... That's...that's that scientist Tony didn't want you working with.” His expression turns a little more fearful. “Did that man—did he do this to you, Peter?”

For a split-second, Peter thinks about saying yes. But that's the coward in him talking and goes against the whole purpose of doing this in the first place. He feels kind of awful thinking it at all. So he meets his dad's eyes and says, “No, Dad. I did. I volunteered.”

The room is so quiet Peter feels like the hum of the machinery is going to deafen him.

“You...volunteered,” Steve says finally.

Peter pushes himself upright, ignoring the ache in his joints. “Dad, you gotta understand, I can't protect you like, like  _this_ ,” he says, waving at his gangly limbs, his glasses.

Steve covers his mouth.

When he pulls it away and says, “Peter—” his voice is rough and low. Whatever it is he means to say, he stops. He breathes in, a little shaky, and then says, firm, “I'm going to call your father. Then you're going to tell us  _everything._ ”

Peter nods and stares at his hands.

He hopes they can't reverse it.

~

Peter's dad leaves and Gwen tightens her grip on the books in her lap. She looks up at Peter, who's staring at his hands, clenched around the blanket near his waist, and says through a thick throat, “I'm sorry, Peter.”

He looks up at her, mouth thin and eyes smoldering. “You had no right.”

The small part of her that thought he might understand flickers and goes out. Her lip starts to tremble and hard as she tries she can't make it stop. Finally, she forces out, “You're fifteen, Peter.”

“I'm old enough!” he snaps.

She looks at him sharply, feeling the tears collecting in her eyes. “Do you even know who that man is, Peter? Did you do  _any_ research before you reached out to him?”

“Yeah, of course I did—”

“He used to work for your _dad,_ Peter.”

That pulls Peter up short, she can see it in his face. “That doesn't mean anything. If he worked for my dad—”

“There's no official record of why he left,” she says, severely, because he needs to _understand,_ dammit. “ _None._ ”

“What does it matter where he worked before anyway?” Peter demands. He's starting to get pale, sweat gathering around his temples.

She stares at him, mouth agape. “What does it  _matter?_ Peter, he worked for your father, at one of the most ethical scientific corporations in the world and something happened that made it impossible to find out why he left, if it was of his own volition or if he was  _made_ to leave. That's a huge red flag! And you know how dangerous radioactive experimentation is. Doctor Banner—”

“Is safe!” Peter snarls and Gwen shakes her head, looking up at the ceiling when she feels a tear slip free.

Voice shaking, she says, “You know he hasn't always been. You're spitting in the face of everything he's overcome to become that way, doing something like this.”

“Just— Just go,” Peter says through gritted teeth.

Gwen covers her mouth with one hand, trying to stop a sob from escaping her throat. “I'm sorry,” she chokes, “I just couldn't sit by and watch you risk your life.”

She doesn't wait for an answer. She picks up her books and flees.

~

The muffled sound of a bell ringer coaxes Tony out of a deep sleep, and immediately brings a smile to his face _._

His fingers seek out and find his phone underneath the pillow on the other side of the bed and he drags it out, still mostly asleep. He answers, “Mm, hi, Steve.”

The cool, smooth softness of the pillow under his head feels fantastic, and he burrows a little deeper into it.

“ _Hi, Tony._ ”

“I finally got some sleep,” Tony tells him proudly, knowing it will make Steve happy. He's weird like that.

“ _That's great, Tony,_ ” Steve says quietly and Tony frowns, eyes cracking open.

He squints at the clock on the bedside table. The readout is blurry. “What's the matter? Normally you'd be wetting yourself in delight over that achievement.” He rubs his eyes and tries again. The clock says its quarter past five. “What time is it there anyway? I've got a couple hours. We could, ah, have a little fun—”

“ _Tony, shut up for a second, would you?”_ Steve snaps.

Tony blinks, startled into silence. “What's got your panties in a twist?”

“ _I know why Peter is sick,_ ” Steve barrels on.

Pushing the hair back off of his forehead, Tony's brow furrows. “Yeah, I know, too. He's got the flu. A spider bit him—”

“ _It's not the flu,”_ Steve says and Tony digs his fingers into the corner of his eye sockets, pushing up to slouch against the headboard.

“What do you mean it's not the flu? Did the double-B's find something else?”

“ _No. Gwen came by to visit. She and Peter were talking—I don't know what happened, but I went in to split them up because I told them no touching. Gwen said that she knew why Peter was sick. She said OsCorp is doing experiments with radioactive spider specimens and mentioned a scientist called Kane Scabel..._ ”

The sound of Tony's breathing suddenly seems very loud in his ears.

Scabel had been responsible for the only incident in over fifteen _years_ when the room Peter is now staying in had ever been used for it's radiation containing purposes, insisting that irradiation combined with his “serum” would be able to replicate or at least create a similar effect to the Erskine serum. But he'd displayed a serious lack of reverence for life in his notes and Tony had turned him down flat, ordering him to get back to the work he'd been hired for. _Life-saving_ work.

Instead he'd brought in a goddamn rabbit from _home_ and gone ahead with the experiment.

The radiation meters in the building had gone apeshit and Steve had assembled the team as per Unplanned Hulk-Out protocol when JARVIS reported that Bruce was...occupied and definitely _not_ Hulking-out. 

One thing had led to another and they'd found the rabbit and stuck it into the isolation room to prevent it from irradiating the whole damn Tower. It had gone through some really unpleasant changes before finally expiring and, come to think of it, that had been the incident that had gotten Scabel fired.

Tony remembers the raw-skinned, steroid-injected look of the dying rabbit, eugh, and shudders.

And now, now Steve's telling him that that madman, that sick freak has something to do with what's happening to their kid.

“. _..Peter said that he volunteered, but I don't know what that means, Tony. This Scabel is in charge of these genetically modified spiders, so he what? He let one of them bite him?_ ”

“Wait,” Tony says, brain catching up, “wait, _what?_ Peter said he'd done this?”

“ _That's what he said. He said, 'I volunteered'._ ”

“Why the _hell_ would he— That can't be right. Scabel had something to do with this—he tricked him into it, or blackmailed him or, or—” Tony feels fury like flames licking behind his eyes. 

“ _Tricked him into what, Tony?_ ”

“He was trying to recreate the serum.”

“ _What?”_ Steve's shock is tinged with a sharp anger and Tony's mouth sets into a grim line. Yeah, this is going to bring up all sorts of bad shit Steve's had to deal with, thanks to Zola.

Tony bends over the edge of the bed to scoop his tablet up off the floor. “Yeah,” he says, “five years ago. In August.”

Steve's quiet for a minute, thinking back. While he thinks, Tony sends a message to Pepper. “ _Something happened at SI you wouldn't tell me about,”_ Steve says finally. _“You said not to worry about it, that you couldn't talk about it._ ”

“I had to sign a gag order. It was just—better not to tell you. Scabel experimented on a rabbit.”

Steve's horror is palpable over the line. “ _That day we thought there had been an incident._ ”

“That's the one,” Tony says grimly. The door to his room opens and Pepper sticks her head in. “Ah, good, Pepper, come here, I have to go home.”

“Tony, no,” Pepper says, shaking her head. “You can't go back, not now. The funeral's in—” She checks her watch. “—five hours. You can't leave without attending. I'll put in an itinerary and you can leave the minute it's over, but you can't leave before that, Tony.”

“ _Dammit,”_ Steve snaps. “ _Of all the lousy_ —” He cuts himself off.

“What's going on?” Pepper asks. “What happened? Is Peter okay?”

“I'll tell you later,” Tony says. “Right now, Steve and I need to have a conversation with our son and figure out exactly what the hell he's been hiding from us.”

_ ~ _

Tony wants to get dressed, so Steve lets him go and takes the time to ask Bruce and Betty to leave the lab. This is something he, Tony, and Peter have to talk about on their own.

“Whatever's wrong with Peter is something he's had a hand in,” he tells them, tense like a clenched fist. “Hopefully we'll know more after we talk to him.”

Bruce nods, wary-looking. Betty rubs a hand up his arm and says to Steve, “We're here when you need us.”

Steve musters up a weak smile of thanks. They go, and Steve is left alone in the lab. He looks through the glass to where Peter lies and feels a pang when he finds him hunched over a basin, clearly riding out the end of a bout of vomiting.

An untested form of some scientist's attempt at recreating the serum. Holy hell.

Over the years, Steve's seen at least a dozen different attempts at recreation. They've ranged from pretty-good-except-the-scientist-using-it-was-ruthless-and-power-hungry to gruesome-nightmare-inducing-catastrophe. Too many of them have been closer to the nightmare-inducing end for him to feel anything but dread.

He doesn't have the intel now to make any judgements. He needs to be patient, to try and understand Peter's side of things. Whatever he did, it wasn't out of malice and that has to count for something.

“How you feeling?” Steve asks when he's entered and closed the door behind him.

Peter glances up and then back down at his lap. “Fine.”

“If you don't feel up to it—”

“I'm fine, Dad,” Peter insists, like Steve is annoying him. “Can we just get this over with?”

Steve's sympathy sours. “JARVIS, put Tony through,” he says, and pulls out the nearest view screen with a sharp tug. He sits down on the opposite side of the bed so he can see them both.

Tony's face pops up on screen. He's half-dressed in an all-black suit, with a tie looped around the popped collar of his shirt. “ _So_.”

Peter shrinks down into the bed.

“All right, Peter,” Steve says. “Tell us everything.”

“What do you want to know?”

Steve looks over at Tony because, honestly, he has no idea. Tony leans forward, elbows on his knees, and says, “ _You know Scabel because you started that internship for him. Then I told you that was a no-go and_...” He trails off, prompting Peter to continue with a look.

“You said I couldn't do the internship, that I couldn't go anywhere near OsCorp. So I didn't,” Peter says. He sniffs and pushes his glasses up with the back of one hand, eyes sliding sideways. “I emailed him to tell him I wasn't coming back and he said that was okay. He said I could help him out over email and video chat. I did exactly what you wanted,” Peter says, looking up at Tony, jaw set. “I stayed away from OsCorp.”

“ _OsCorp?_ ” Tony echoes. “ _OsCorp? I don't give a damn about OsCorp, Peter! Okay, that's a lie, I think they're walking a razor-wire tightrope between right and wrong, and Norman Osborne is a ruthless son of a bitch whose ethics are for sale, and, yeah, biological science is not my thing, at all, but that's got nothing to do with why I didn't want you doing that internship!_ ”

Peter scoffs. “I'm supposed to believe that? All you ever do is belittle them, Dad!”

Tony pauses, hand raised. After a moment he says, “ _Okay. That's— That's fair. I don't say a lot of nice things about OsCorp, you're right._ ”

“Try never.”

Steve watches as his son and his husband stare each other down. One day, Peter won't be the first to look away.

Peter glares at the blankets. “If it wasn't about OsCorp, what _was_ it about?”

“ _Scabel_ ,” Tony says, his mouth pulling into a sharp slash across his face. “ _He's dangerous. I didn't want him anywhere near you._ ”

“Scabel? Dangerous?” Peter's voice is bright with disbelief.

Steve might have taken his side, if he didn't know _why_ Tony had been ruthless in dismissing the scientist.

“ _He used to work here, for me, Peter. In the labs. There was an incident_ —” Tony shakes his head. “ _He was fired, but we had to keep him quiet. We were forced to sign a gag order._ ”

“What did he do?”

“ _He tried to recreate the super soldier serum that made your dad the way he is. But he used radiation. He did unauthorized tests on an animal. It died, he almost irradiated the whole place_.”

“So he made a mistake. What if he was right? What if he figured it out and it just needed tweaking? Someone who would support his research—”

“ _It's impossible. Nix that, I shouldn't say impossible, I've said that way too often and been wrong more than I like to admit, but radiation is deadly. We haven't found a way around that. Nobody has. His entire formula hinges on the use of radiation. It causes billions of deaths, but then every so often there's your Uncle and the Fantastic Four, and it did not work out great for two out of those five lucky people who wound up not-dead. It's a complete crapshoot_.”

“Maybe he figured out the key,” Peter protests. “It's statistically improbable that Erskine is the only one who could create this effect.”

Tony breathes out through pursed lips, trying to contain his frustration. “ _He can't have just 'figured it out', Peter. Finding a way to get around the effects of radiation would require extensive testing—_ human _testing. The kind no one in their right mind is ever gonna green light.”_

Steve shifts forward, heart thumping hard. “Peter, is that what he gave you? His serum?”

On screen, Tony falls into silence, disbelieving.

Peter sets his jaw, determined and stubborn, and says, “Yes.”

Steve's stomach lurches, and he's abruptly dizzy and nauseated. He can't think, can't speak.

Tony's eyes have gone bright with fury, his cheeks splotched red. “ _He gave you his serum._ ”

Steve's eyes are drawn to Peter's hands, white knuckled around his blankets. “I _asked_ him for the serum.”

Tony gives a whole body flinch, like the words have physically struck him and says, very clearly, controlled to the last syllable, “ _You. Did. What?_ ”

Peter's uncertainty vanishes, his features sharpening. “You wouldn't listen to me.” He glances over to include Steve and it feels like someone's pulled his stomach out through his throat. “ _Neither_ of you would listen to me. I _told_ you, so many times, that I wanted to do more—”

“ _You're a goddamn kid!_ ” Tony snaps, voice like a whipcrack.

“I'll be able to _help_ people!” Peter all but shouts, the veins along his temples growing more visible as his frustration mounts. “You! You raised me to think of other people, to want to do the right thing, but _you wouldn't let me!_ ”

“ _This could kill you, you realize that?_ ” Tony snarls.

“Tony!” Steve says. That's going too far, skimming too close to what Steve is more afraid of than anything.

Peter is unmoved. “This isn't the serum you saw, Dad, he's fixed it, I've been studying his research for months—”

But it doesn't matter what Peter says now, Steve can see in Tony's face that he's stopped listening, that he's actively ignoring Peter's arguments.

“ _Where are you keeping the data? Everything. Where is it? He wouldn't have done this—you—wouldn't have done this without recording your research so where is it?_ ”

Peter's mouth pulls closed a little tighter and Tony's patience snaps.

“ _Goddammit, Peter_ , _give me what I need so I can figure out how to keep you alive!_ ”

“I'm not going to die, this is going to work! You're an engineer not a geneticist, what would you know?!” Peter shouts.

Steve can't let him get away with that. “Peter!” he barks. “Watch your tone.”

Peter's answering glare could curdle milk. “I thought for sure you, of all people, would understand.”

Steve's teeth clench. Try as he might, calm is slipping between his fingers. “What I did was different.”

“How?” Peter demands. “Tell me, how was it different?”

“We are not at war, and you are _fifteen._ You have no idea—”

“Oh, here we go again,” Peter sneers and Steve can hardly believe this is the same kid who's hand he held just forty-eight hours ago. Everyone had warned them that Peter would start to keep secrets, but he'd never really believed... “I'm old enough to intern, which is literally a _job_ only I don't get paid, but I'm not old enough to decide what to do with my own fucking body?”

“ _Don't you_ dare _talk to him like that_ ,” Tony says, voice no longer raised, and somehow all the more coldly furious for it. “I don't want to hear another word out of your mouth unless it's the location of your notes. Don't make me go looking.”

Peter glares at him, his eyes bright with anger. “It's on my server. Under College Applications. The one for NYU.”

“ _I have to go_ ,” Tony grits. “ _JARVIS, lock him out. Nothing, got it? You revoke his access to everything—block his goddamn phone._ ”

“It doesn't matter anyway,” Peter mutters bitterly, sinking back into the pillows. “There's no one I want to talk to.”

“ _Good_ ,” Tony snarls and the screen goes black.

Peter looks over at Steve and some of the anger seeps out of his expression, twisting into something more like hurt. “You were supposed to understand,” he mumbles.

Steve shakes his head. “Not this. Not this way.”

“I just want to—”

“Don't,” Steve says, holding out a hand, closing his eyes. “Just...don't, Peter.”

Peter shrinks in on himself, and turns on his side, putting his back to Steve. The rift Steve hadn't even realized was there is suddenly massive, insurmountable. How the hell are they going to fix this?


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter.

Thor steps out of the elevator, a small box of cards tucked in his left hand—it has been some time since he last visited Peter and he can surely use something to take his mind off of his illness. Thor is no healer, and this is the best thing he knows to do. He is, however, impeded by Steve nearly forcing him back into the elevator when he barrels directly into Thor's chest, head bowed.

Thor holds his ground, reaching up to steady Steve, who has bounced back a step. He looks up, a deeply embedded frown giving way to contriteness. “Shit, sorry, Thor.”

Thor waves away his apologies. “What has caused you such wholly consuming thoughts? Has Peter's condition worsened?”

“No,” Steve says. Then immediately: “Yes. Maybe. I don't know.” He scrubs his hands over his face.

“Come,” Thor says, beckoning him over to one of the beds. He seats himself on it and looks to Steve to do the same. He follows suit and then seems to deflate, elbows coming to rest on his knees, his face in his hands. “Tell me what complication has arisen,” Thor presses. “Perhaps we can thwart it together.”

Steve sighs. “I hope so. Listen, I should tell everyone all at once, can you round everybody up? I just need a minute. To. To get my head around it.”

“Of course,” Thor says, worry increasing tenfold at the request. He squeezes Steve's shoulder in an effort to offer him some modicum of comfort and goes to perform the task he has been given.

What Steve has to tell them is even worse than Thor's imagining.

“We never should have taught him to deflect,” Natasha says, clearly angry with her perceived role in what Peter has done. “I _knew_ he was hiding something, I should have known what he was feeding me about Gwen was a crock.”

“Didn't I fucking _say_ this was coming?” Clint demands of her and Steve's eyes snap to him.

“What do you mean?” he asks sharply.

Guilt steals across Clint's face—he sometimes speaks without care for those he is speaking of. Then he sighs and turns to face Steve completely. “Look, Steve, this has been building for two goddamn years. Pete's been chomping at the bit and instead of letting up on the reins a little, you and Tony have been hanging on tighter and tighter.”

“We've always encouraged Peter's interest in joining the Avengers!” Steve protests.

“Nay,” Thor says, because it is a hard truth, but it is one that can no longer be ignored. “You have—” He pauses, searching for the phrase he needs. “—'paid lip-service', but you have done nothing to move Peter toward this path. A path he has held in the greatest esteem since he was a small child. A path to which he now feels entitled. It is something that has often been a cause for my concern, as I believe it is a similar pattern which led to so much of Loki's resentment. I did not believe it my place to intrude. I chose your present good favor to Peter's detriment.” He is not proud to realize he is still making the mistakes of his youth. The bitterness of this realization makes Steve's affront all the more difficult to bear.

“We told him when he was old enough—”

Clint groans and stands. “Steve, _come on_ , pull your head out of your ass. He's _fifteen._ Pete's physically only a little better off than Tony.”Clint jabs one thumb over his shoulder to point at Natasha and then moves to jab it to his own chest. “You don't build up a skill set like the ones we've got without a _fuckton_ of practice unless you get shot full of Chemical X.” The finger he jabs at Bruce and then at Steve himself is a crude, but effective way of making his point. “Think of how long it took to train Tony to be able to hold his own outside the suit, gadget-free.”

The stubborn, proud set of Steve's shoulders starts to slip.

“Nobody's blaming you,” Bruce cuts in, voice meant to serve as a balm. “You and Tony do a great job. You're good parents.”

“Sure,” Steve says, sinking down onto a chair. “We just made him feel like he couldn't trust us to help him get what he wanted.”

“You were doing the best you could. You wanted—we all wanted—him to have the childhoods we never did.”

Steve's head bows and after a long moment, he says hoarsely, “If something happens—” He covers his mouth as though to prevent himself finishing the thought. He looks as though he may be ill.

“We're going to do everything we can to make sure that it doesn't, Steve,” Betty says.

Steve nods tersely, eyes fixed on the ground. “What's our play?”

“You said Tony got the location of Peter's notes,” Bruce says. “That's a good place to start.”

“Clint and I will track down Scabel,” Natasha says. “We'll get whatever there is that Peter doesn't have.”

Steve's expression grows fearsome, dark like the sky before a storm. “I want to talk to him.”

“I'm sure we can arrange that,” Clint says, with a tight, foreboding smile.

Thor speaks. “I will return to Asgard and consult with Healer Eir. If Peter cannot be cured by Midgardian medicine, mayhaps our magicks will be able to do something for him.”

“All right. Thank you,” Steve says, running a hand over his hair. He seems bolstered by the presence of a plan. “I'll just...”

“Stay here,” Bruce suggests. “Monitor Peter for changes. You should be close to him.”

“Right,” Steve says, and his eyes are drawn down the hall to the door through which Peter lies. “Sure.”

~

For awhile, Peter stares at the wall and shakes with how angry he is. His breaths come sharp, and short, and his chest burns like a supernova has taken the place of his lungs, feeding the tremors.

His dads are _hypocrites._ He doesn't understand why they're doing this, why they won't _listen_ to him.

Peter seethes and seethes until his hands cramp from gripping his blankets in white-knuckled fists. The door opens and he refuses to look.

“Peter,” Bruce says, and his voice is quiet, but firm.

He looks.

Bruce looks back at him, way calmer than Peter expected, honestly. “Steve told us about Scabel. About the serum.”

“If you came to yell at me, start with something more original than _'you're just a kid, Peter',_ will you?”

Bruce steps forward slowly, running his fingers along the capped syringe in his hands. “I didn't come to yell. I just came to get some blood so we can see what this serum's doing.”

“You're going to try and reverse it,” Peter accuses. “You won't be able to.”

Bruce looks up at him. “You're probably right.”

That gives Peter a vicious surge of hope.

“May I?” Bruce asks, and reaches for his arm.

Peter holds it out. “Go nuts.”

They're both quiet while Bruce rubs alcohol over the crook of his elbow, uncaps the syringe, and slides it into Peter's arm. It hurts more than it usually would. They're both watching his blood fill the barrel of the syringe when Bruce speaks up.

“I always thought that if something like this happened it would be my fault. That it would be because you came into contact with my blood somehow. I was dangerous. I never imagined... I never wanted my past to repeat, not like this. I thought that you would learn from my mistakes so that you wouldn't—”

He closes his eyes and slides the needle free. 

“I made new mistakes, different ones. I should have done more. Listened more closely, been more vocal. I'm sorry, Peter.”

Peter is taken aback. He never expected anyone _apologizing,_ let alone Uncle Bruce. He wasn't the one who refused to listen. “It's not your fault,” he says dumbly.

Bruce smiles at him, but it's a sad, tired smile. “Peter, the older you get, the more you realize how subtle cause and effect really are. You're right, it's not entirely my fault that we've reached this point, but there are a thousand and one places leading up to this point where I could have said or done something that could have prevented all of this.”

Peter's stomach wriggles, uneasy. He'd known—expected even—that Uncle Bruce would be mad about the whole serum thing, it's a sore spot for him, but he'd expected just that: _anger._ Apologies and worry hadn't been anywhere in the top 50.

“You were trying to recreate the super soldier serum to help people, weren't you?” he says; maybe Bruce will understand that this isn't his fault, that Peter had to do it. “That's what I want to do.”

Bruce sets the syringe on the bedside table and wraps his arms around himself. He smiles, but it's false. “As much as I'd like to be able to tell you yes, that my intentions were noble and pure, I've come far enough to be able to say: no.”

He looks up and Peter swallows.

“What I did, Peter, was selfish. It was about power, about pride. About doing it because I _could_ , not be cause I should. I didn't want to hurt people, I never wanted that, and once things went...awry, I did everything I could to try and mitigate the damage, but the fact still remains that I did it because I thought I was smarter than everyone else. And I wanted to prove it to them.”

A slick, sinking feeling settles in Peter's stomach.

Bruce looks like he might know what Peter's feeling. He squeezes Peter's arm very gently. “Sometimes we're very good at lying to ourselves.”

_ ~ _

It's mid-summer in Australia, and hot as hell at the funeral. 

Tony is wearing black, all black, the whole shebang, and it's miserable. Pepper sits at his side, her face covered in a veil, hair tucked up under the hat. Her mouth is set in a grim line.

Mid-way through one of the moms is up at the podium crying her eyes out and talking about how much her baby loved engineering and how he was getting his degree from the University of Central Queensland and Tony's throat closes up because Peter could wind up like that sorry-sack goddamn rabbit and they might never even find _out_ what he wants to major in. Rage sweeps through him, washing out from his chest to his fingertips and he clenches them into fists, feeling himself shaking.

Beside him Pepper opens her parasol. It drops down until he can't even see the woman who's speaking anymore. Pepper leans over and orders, “Breathe, Tony.”

His lip curls and he he he snaps, “I _am_ breathing.”

Pepper stares at him, eyes narrowing. Tony breathes, and seethes, and festers.

The rest of the funeral passes in a blur, his chest tight like someone's twisting the arc reactor casing, trying to press it in deeper. Peter did this to _himself_. When the fuck have they _ever_ made him feel like he wasn't enough, exactly the way he was? How could he be so goddamn stupid?

Tony doesn't even realize the funeral's ended until Pepper taps his knee, dragging him back from across the ocean. “Come on,” she says. “The car's waiting for you.”

Tony gets up to follow her, accepting his phone back just in time for it to go off in his hand.

He answers, “Pepper's taking me to the car now—”

“ _Tony, he's having another seizure!”_

Tony only vaguely hears everything after "another seizure", and he doesn't realize his phone has slipped out of his hand until Pepper catches it and puts it to her own ear. "Steve?" she says. "What's—" She gasps. "Oh god." Tony forces his neck to turn and looks at her, but can't get his mouth to form the words to ask what Steve is saying. If he doesn't hear them, he can pretend— No, that's bullshit. He needs to know what's happening in order to be able to do something.

He holds out his hand and Pepper's eyes flick over him, measuring. He lets his look harden into a glare and snaps his fingers imperiously.

"Okay, Steve— Steve! Tony wants his phone back, I'm going to pass you ov— Okay. No, I can— I can handle this here. Of course. Don't be ridiculous, Steve, no one expects that of either of you. I'll see him onto the plane myself. Okay. Keep me appraised?" she says, and that isn't an order, it's a plea, the softer core of her peeking through her tough shell. "I'll talk to you soon. Give Peter my love. Okay. Bye, Steve."

She passes the phone back and Tony has it to his ear in a heartbeat. "Steve?" he says, croaks, really, and he tries to work some moisture into his mouth while Steve goes on.

" _You're on your way?_ "

"Yeah, getting in the car now." He wipes a hand over his face, stopping over his mouth. "God, Steve, he's okay, right? I mean, besides the obvious—"

" _I don't know, Tony_ ," Steve says and as angry as Tony is, the fear of what Scabel's serum is doing to Peter blanks it out in a heartbeat. He thinks briefly of taking the suit, of going home on his own, but he's not sure he should be in charge of getting himself there right now, the way he feels.

" _I'm on the floor now_ ," Steve says and Tony can hear the faintest shush of doors sliding apart as he exits the elevator. He can picture Steve stalking down the hallway, a man on a mission, and he's just grateful Steve hasn't hung up yet. His heart starts to pound harder as he visualizes Steve moving into and then across the lab into the secondary lab attached to Peter's room. He can't _stand_ it, god, he can't, what the hell is going _on—_ “Steve,” he prompts; pleads, really, who the hell is he kidding?

Then he hears Steve let out a soft, heaving breath, his voice unsteady when he says, “ _Oh, God, Tony, I don't— Bruce?_ ” His voice breaks, plaintive, and Tony shifts forward, clutching at the short hairs on the back of his head.

“Steve, please, Jesus, tell me what the hell is happening.”

After a torturous moment in which Tony can make out the tenor of Bruce's voice but not the words, Steve says, “ _Peter... Peter's still seizing. Bruce says he might for up to fifteen minutes. The...the activity is happening in the entire left hemisphere of his brain. Bruce has JARVIS—_ ” Then Steve cuts off with a strangled little noise and Bruce barks something in the background. Tony shoots upright, fingers digging into the leather of the seat.

“Steve! _”_ Tony waits for a fraction of a second, fingers hurting under the force he's exerting, and then he yanks the phone back away from his head and shouts, “Goddammit, JARVIS, get me video feeds _now—”_

Pepper lays a hand on his arm and he jerks away from her, his chest heaving. It feels like he's going to break apart, like his heart is going to burst in his chest and he can't _breathe—_

He's having a goddamn panic attack.

Shit, he hasn't had one in ages. 

“Tony, breathe!” Pepper barks.

“Peter,” he bleats back at her, scrabbling at his tie because it's choking him. This is his worst nightmare, worse even than kidnapping, than some psycho getting his hands on Peter, because this, he can't fight this, he can't fight Peter's own _body._

“Tony!”

He yelps as a tumbler full of ice cascades right down the front of his shirt, stomach shrinking back away from the bite of it, and he scrambles to get his shirt untucked. That just dumps the rapidly melting cubes into his lap.

“What the hell, Pepper!”

“Calm. Down,” she orders, giving him a narrow-lipped glare.

Icy water is dripping onto the fly of his pants and he shudders, shouting, “Okay, okay, Jesus! I'm calm! I'm calm!”

“We're at the airport,” Pepper informs him, pointing, and he can, in fact, see the airfield just outside the window. “I've filed a flight plan and they're ready to go the minute you're on board. Seizures are bad, Tony, but they are not a death sentence. You need to breathe slowly and _get your butt in gear._ You are Tony Stark. Practically the entire world owes you a favor. Cash them in. Get Peter the help he needs and get him better. You cannot do that if you are panicking and frozen. Do you understand?”

Tony swallows hard and goes over everything she's said in his head again. “Okay,” he says at last, because she's right. He can do this. 

“Good,” Pepper says. “Now go home and kiss your husband and hug your son. Everything will be okay.”

Tony reaches for the door handle, pausing when he's laid his hand over it. “Pepper—” 

“I know,” she says and leans forward to kiss his cheek. “Go.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, fyi, the warnings are going to become relevant again as things heat up! Also, my chapter estimate was not accurate as I misnumbered things during my pre-posting revisions, so I've fixed that. It may fluctuate one or two chapters in either direction depending upon how things go. Most of this chapter is actually new stuff, so yeah! Fair warning, the end may be further away than the chapter count makes it seem, haha. -_-

Tony keeps a tight lid on his anxiety until the airplane door seals shut behind him and he realizes this is where he's going to be for the next twelve hours. He's an eternity away from home and Scabel's serum is working it's way through Peter, blazing a path of destruction. This seizure went on for eight minutes and fifty-eight seconds. The last one was only three and twenty-nine. 

The stewardess murmurs, “Can I get you anyth—” and Tony cuts her off.

“Scotch. Bring the bottle,” he orders, and Steve says sharply in his ear, “ _Tony_.”

“Twelve goddamn hours, Steve,” he retorts. His heart is fluttering like a malfunctioning intake valve. Steve doesn't say anything else and Tony wishes the triumph didn't feel so sour. “JARVIS, get me those video feeds,” he says and taps the table top with unsteady fingers. He can't be there physically, but that sure as hell doesn't mean there's nothing he can do. A holographic monitor springs up in front of him, and at the front of the plane a screen descends against the wall. “Equipment readings here in front of me, video feed on the screen.”

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS replies and before he's finished speaking all of Tony's orders have been carried out. The video is from a camera in the ceiling just above the door of Peter's room so he's looking straight at the bed where Peter's curled up into Steve's side. He looks awful and that scares the devil out of Tony.

“How's he doing?” he asks as he flicks his fingers over the table display, taking in Peter's vitals. His heart's steady and normal, breathing's normal, and the EEG tracking his brainwaves looks normal, as far as Tony can tell, but he's not exactly a neurologist. His temperature's crept back up to a hundred and two and that makes Tony start gnawing at the corner of his thumbnail. People aren't meant to sustain that kind of body temperature.

The stewardess finally brings the bottle of scotch and Tony snatches it, and the glass she brought, out of her hand. He pours two fingers, sloshing some of it on the table.

“ _He's okay_ ,” Steve says, quiet, and Tony glances up at the video to see Steve stroke Peter's unruly hair back from his forehead with infinitely gentle fingers. “ _He's hot and drowsy. A little confused._ ” Tony feels his lower lip tremble and he pours the shots down his throat. It's been awhile since he had a drink and his eyes prickle at the stripe of heat it paints down his sternum. God, not enough; it's not enough. He just wants to get _blitzed._

He can't though, he's got to look at Peter's notes and figure out how the hell they're going to fix this.

Seeing Scabel's name on the screen in front of him makes Tony's fury flare, white-hot. This is Scabel's fault. Whatever Peter did, whatever he _agreed to,_ it's still fucking Scabel's fault because Peter's a goddamn teenager and legally he can't consent to anything because teenaged brains are basically soup.

And Scabel went after Tony's _kid_ , on purpose, because there's no way in hell he didn't know.

Tony slams the tumbler down on the table and it shatters. He hears from far away, “ _Tony?”_ and a more feminine voice whisper, “Oh my god.”

He wants to crack open his own chest, scream and howl. The pressure's _unbearable._

Tony bends forward instead, hunching over his lap, and breathes the best he can, hands clenched in his hair.

When he gets control of himself, he lifts his head and sniffs once, rubbing at his brow. The alcohol is starting to do its work, softening the panic and the anxiety, distancing him from his body just enough. He breathes and scrubs his hands over his face and clears his throat, says, “J, get Bruce. I need more information.”

~

Peter falls asleep not long after Tony's plane takes off.

Steve considers getting up to go loom over Bruce's shoulder while he works, but decides he'll be more of a hindrance than a help and right now just being close to Peter is the best thing for his nerves.

When he and Tony first started talking about conceiving, Steve had been worried about two things: that the serum would pass on to Peter and have awful, unintended consequences, or that the serum _wouldn't_ pass on to Peter and he would be sickly the way Steve had been. Steve was a sick kid and that's a part of him, something that makes him who he is, but it was a hard road and all he wants is for Peter to be _healthy_. It's such a blessing to be healthy and maybe Peter takes it for granted, but Steve likes it that way. Maybe that's where he went wrong.

Through the glass he can see Bruce and Betty both working, Bruce bent over a station with a monitor. He maximizes a window and Tony's face fills the screen.

The alcohol is evidently kicking in because there's a flush across Tony's cheeks and nose and his movements have taken on a loose laziness. Steve doesn't like the surge of resentment he feels.

People assume sometimes that because he's Christian, and Captain America, that he doesn't approve of drinking. Mostly Steve lets them because it seems most people who are bothered by that are people who are drinking to excess anyhow. But the truth is a lot less noble; Steve doesn't like to see Tony drink because it makes him jealous.

He wouldn't mind being able to drown his troubles at the bottom of a bottle once in awhile.

Easing out of the bed, Steve kisses Peter's forehead and then slips into the lab to listen.

“There's nothing overtly toxic in it,” Bruce is saying. “Aside from the spider venom, I mean. It's a latrotoxin and there's enough of it to cause symptoms, but not nearly enough to kill him.”  
  
“ _Okay, great,_ ” Tony says. “ _Fantastic. So we know Scabel isn't deliberately trying to kill Peter, unless the mixture overall is in some way toxic—_ ”

“Too much time has passed for that to be a viable option,” Betty says, pushing hair back out of her face. “If it were toxic, in a fatal kind of way, it would have already killed him.”

“It's highly unlikely,” Bruce agrees. “The make-up is really more like that of a vaccine.”

“ _A vaccine, huh?_ ”

“A vaccine for what?” Steve asks and the three of them look up.

Betty shakes her head. “Humanity, maybe?”

“There's nothing we can do,” Steve says, looking between the three of them. “No way to reverse what's been done already? Stop whatever's happening.”

Bruce shakes his head. “The radiation is still increasing. I've never seen that before. I have no idea where we'd even start to try and stop this. We're not giving up though, Steve.”

“Captain Rogers,” JARVIS cuts in smoothly, “Lieutenant Barnes is calling.”

“Bucky?” Steve straightens up. “Put him through to my phone, will you?”

“Certainly.”

Steve moves quickly to the corner of the room where he thinks he'll least be in the way and pulls out his phone, taps on the tight-cropped image of Bucky's face. “Buck?” he says, and winces at the sound of desperation in his voice.

“ _Hey, Steve, sorry I missed your call. What's going on? You sound off.”_

Bucky's voice is a relief all it's own, calling Steve back to his childhood, when he could count on Bucky to make things right. He sags against the wall. “It's real good to hear your voice, Buck.”

There's a lot of rustling on the line and then Bucky pulls out his Serious Business voice. “ _All right, Steve, what's going on? You're getting all maudlin on me. Is it Tony? All you gotta do is say the word and I'll kick his ass so far into the future he'll forget his own name.”_

Steve huffs. “No, it's not— It's not Tony, Buck, jeez, cool it.”

“ _Is that Barnes?_ ” Steve hears and looks up to find Tony peering at him from the screen between Bruce and Betty. 

“Yeah,” he says.

“ _Get him to put his feelers out.”_

“Feelers for what, Tony? We already know who did this.”

“ _Did what?_ ” Bucky says in his ear.

“ _I don't know,”_ Tony says, hands waving, “ _maybe he knows some scientists or something. Who the hell knows what kind of resources Barnes has.”_

Steve admits that's a fair point. Bucky's network of contacts is a strange and skulking thing with tendrils in unexpected places. “Tony wants you to put out feelers for us.”

“ _About_ what _?”_ Bucky says, teeth gritted, but just a little.

Steve hesitates and then says, steady as he can, “Peter found a scientist who was trying to recreate the serum. He volunteered to be the first human trial.”

“ _WHAT?_ ”

Steve scrunches his eyes shut, digs his fingers into the corners of them. “That's pretty much how we felt,” he sighs.

“ _I've been gone two fucking weeks, Steve!”_ Bucky yells. “ _What the fuck do you mean he volunteered to be the first human trial? Don't you have to get parental permission for that kind of shit?”_

Bucky's cursing always gets worse when he's ticked. It's funny, because Steve remembers when he couldn't even  _ whisper _ a swear word without looking around like someone was going to spring out of thin air to box his ears.

“If it had been a legitimate trial, yes. _”_

“ _Who?_ ” Bucky demands, all emotion gone in a snap.

“It's not like that, Buck,” Steve says, immediately trying to talk him down. “I mean, it _is_ like that, but you can't just go after the guy.”

“ _Why the fuck not?”_

“Well, for one thing, Clint and Natasha are probably already on their way, and I'm betting they've got at least an eight-hour head start.”

That calms him down. “ _ Natasha's on it?” _

“Yes,” Steve says, patient.

“ _What do you need from me?”_

“We're just looking for information at this point,” Steve says.

“ _Done.”_ There's a beat and then Bucky says quietly, “ _How bad are we talking, Steve?”_

Steve puts a hand over his mouth, takes a second to pull himself together and then admits, even quieter, “Pretty bad. Peter's had— Had seizures.”

Bucky swears again. “ _What about Thor?”_

“He came back a couple days ago, just before things took a turn. Everything's happening pretty fast. He said he'd go back to Asgard and talk to Healer Eir, see if she can do anything.”

“ _And Bruce and Betty are already working on it? What about Reed? Have you talked to him?”_

“No,” Steve says, and shakes his head a little. “I mean, I did, but not about this. It was before we— We'll give him a call.”

“ _Timing's shit, as always,_ ” Bucky mutters.

“How so?”

“ _I uncovered some intel about the Fjin.”_

“You're kidding,” Steve says, tipping his head back. Can they not catch a _break?_

“ _Wish I was. I'm on my way back now. Should be there some time tomorrow night. I'll see what I can get moving. You call me if you need me, Steve. You got it?”_

Steve rolls his eyes a little, his mouth tweaking up at the corner. “Yeah, Buck. Thanks.”

~

Clint can hardly believe what he's seeing. He taps at the specially outfitted shades Tony made him, but the view stays the same. Scabel's at home, sitting in his goddamned living room having _tea._

He pushes the shades back up onto his head, staring incredulously at the brownstone across the street. “He's  _there?_ ” Natasha says, disbelieving.

“Drinking tea!” Clint confirms.

Natasha's eyes narrow and Clint gets a chill. That face is bad news bears. “He's not worried that we'd come after him at all.”

“If he is he has a very strange way of showing it,” Clint mutters. He flips down his shades again, lip curling as he watches the orange-headed prick set his cup down on the coffee table. “Let's go say 'hi'.”

With a sharp nod, Natasha moves over to stand at his back and grabs hold of the strap that crosses over his spine between his shoulder blades. She wraps one leg around his. “Let's go.”

Clint lets a zip line arrow fly and it embeds itself in the brick above Scabel's door. He hooks the other end over the edge of the roof. His bow serves as a handle and two point two seconds later they're dropping silently down onto Scabel's front stoop.

Natasha knocks and Clint watches Scabel through the gap in the curtains in the front window as he frowns and sets his teacup down on the coffee table. When he answers the door, Natasha's pointing a gun at his head.

He gasps and stumbles back inside.

Natasha follows. Clint slips in behind her, closing the door with a quiet click of the latch.

“Kane Scabel,” Natasha says, and her voice is utterly devoid of emotion.

Scabel blinks at them, hands held up by his ears, his eyes wide behind the lenses of his spectacles. “I—yes, that's me. Who—”

Clint slams him up against the wall hard enough to dislodge a picture. The glass in the frame shatters when it hits the wood floor and Scabel winces. He swallows several times in succession and then says. “You. You're Hawkeye and—” He cuts himself off when he catches the look on Natasha's face. “You're here about Peter.”

Clint snarls and lifts him away from the wall only to slam him into it again. Another picture falls.

“Clint,” Natasha barks.

Scabel presses forward, apparently unfazed by the show of violence. “Is Peter okay?”

“Shut your mouth,” Natasha says, and she's so tense the words almost bend under the strain. “Your credentials, where are they?”

Wordlessly, Scabel points to a small desk hutch in the corner. Natasha crosses to it, still holding the gun trained on him. She finds Scabel's ID quickly and slips it into a pocket at her waist. Takes his keys and pockets those as well. Then she turns again and stares at Scabel over the barrel of her gun. “Do you have any of the materials from the replica super soldier serum here?”

Scabel doesn't answer right away. Clint growls and swings him around, shoves him into the chair beside where he was having tea. Clint can smell it—chamomile. “Were you feeling a little stressed out, Doc, huh? Had to have a cup of tea to calm your nerves after what you did to Captain America and Iron Man's kid?”

Scabel frowns at him. “I was anxious, yes. There is a lot riding on the success of the dose Peter received.”

Clint sets to work securing Scabel to the chair. His blood is boiling. “Nat, you should go to OsCorp. Get the rest. I'll find whatever he's got here. Call me if you need more than the creds.”

Natasha casts a black look in Scabel's direction. With a tight nod, she agrees. “I'll see you later,” she tells Scabel, and slips out the window.

Clint turns back, screwing a new tip onto one of the arrows. “You're gonna tell me where the papers are, and I'm gonna give you 'till the count of five to do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Drinking, rough treatment and illegal detainment of a bad guy.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was something I wanted to tell you guys, but I cannot for the life of me remember what it is right now. Oh, well, I guess it wasn't that important. Thanks for reading!!

Steve is staring through the glass to where Peter is restlessly sleeping, worrying at the nail of his ring finger with his teeth when he hears a strange voice outside the lab. He frowns and turns, catching Betty's eye as she looks over the screen she's been fixated on.

A second later, the door bursts open and a balding man stumbles through, staggering and falling to his hands and knees. Clint strides through in his wake, drawling, “Do I get hazard pay for this? Because I don't recall 'transporting hazardous waste' being in my contract.”

Steve doesn't hear him right away, busy assessing the man as he scuttles nervously away from Clint. His eyes land on Steve and he pushes his glasses up his nose, swallowing.

“This is Scabel,” Steve says, more to himself than anyone else.

“Is he radioactive?” Betty demands and Clint sighs a no at the same time Scabel blurts indignantly, “ _No!_ ”

“I was talkin' about his personality,” Clint sneers and glowers at Scabel. “Stop moving, or I'll make you.”

“This isn't a joke, Clint,” Steve grits.

Clint's gaze flicks over to him, his mouth a flat, hard line. “Who's joking? Asshole's been hassling me about Peter's condition since I picked him up having his fuckin' evening tea.”

Steve steps toward Scabel without even realizing what he's doing, hands curling into fists. A light hand lands on his chest and he tears his eyes away from the scientist cowering on the floor.

Thor doesn't push, barely touches. “Now is not the time,” he says quietly.

The roar in Steve's ears is so loud he can barely hear him. As it fades, he realizes his breath is coming in sharp, short bursts. His fists feel hot, his face like there's a fire burning under his skin. “Get him up,” he growls.

“Gotta get my hands dirty again,” Clint complains, but he grabs Scabel, hauling him up by the front of his robe. “Where'dyou want him?”

Steve flicks his gaze around the room, considering and discarding options. He points to a wheeled chair in the corner.

Betty pushes it over and Clint shoves Scabel down into it, ignoring the small sound of distress he makes as he hits the seat. It gives Steve a vindictive rush of satisfaction.

Clint fishes a roll of black electrical tape out of his pocket.

“This is extremely illegal,” Scabel says as Clint starts winding the tape around his wrist, fixing it to the chair arm. Sweat is collecting on his upper lip and his strange orange complexion has greyed. Clint lets out a malicious bark of laughter.

Steve crosses his arms over his chest to keep his fury under wraps. “I don't think you get to talk to us about things that are illegal.”

He watches as Clint secures Scabel with a little more force than is probably necessary—it's not nearly enough as far as Steve's concerned. Especially when Scabel stops paying attention to what Clint's doing and notices the wall that looks into Peter's room. He tries to sit up a little straighter, only to be shoved back into the seat. “Hold still, asshole.”

“That's Peter,” Scabel says. The familiar way he speaks Peter's name makes Steve's skin crawl. “Is he sleeping or unconscious? Has he seized again?”

Steve lurches forward and only Thor's hand around his bicep stops him from getting his hands around Scabel's collar. “You shut up,” he snarls. “Don't even— Don't even _look_ at him, you son of a bitch!”

Scabel looks up at him, disdainful. “Why am I here, if not to look at him?”

“Take care how you speak,” Thor warns and Steve feels his grip tighten around his arm.

“I can tape his mouth if you want,” Clint volunteers.

Steve tries to breathe, to get himself under control. “You're here,” he grits finally, “because we need information. If what you say doesn't have something to do with fixing what you've done to him, then Idon't want to hear it.”

“I have worked for _years_ for this, Captain,” Scabel says. “I am not about to help you undo all my hard work.”

It takes Clint and Thor both to drag Steve out of the room before he can do something he'll regret.

~

Peter wakes, and doesn't understand what he's hearing right away.

Whatever it is is muffled. He forgets about it when he starts to feel sick. It's so much effort to shift his body though and he desperately wants to go back to sleep. The nausea gets worse.

His room is dim, but not dark, and he's about to throw up over the edge of the bed when he spots a basin. He drags it onto the bed and heaves.

The liquid that comes out burns his throat.

When the urge finally subsides, he's panting and shaking, cold and hot shivers rippling over his skin in waves. He can barely find the strength to push the basin back onto the bedside table. He wipes his mouth on his sheet because he doesn't have much choice and that's when the noise from before filters back in.

Someone is arguing.

He pushes the blankets out of the way so that he can see to the glass wall. On the other side, he's shocked to see Doctor Scabel, his head just visible over the lab tables. He's glaring defiantly up at Peter's dad, who's flushed red, his hands clenched in fists. Uncle Thor is standing close behind him, hands posed like he's ready to grab Steve at any second. Peter's only ever seen his dad that mad maybe once in his whole life. There's a monitor on the lab table next to him and Tony's there, his eyes dark and glittering. Uncle Clint's standing by Aunt Betty's bowed back, between her and the Doc. Like he can do anything the way he's—he's _taped_ to that chair.

They must be out of their _minds._ They can't do this.

Peter drags himself out of the bed and grabs the blanket folded on the foot, wrapping it around his shoulders because he still feels cold. There's an IV in the back of his hand, but he tugs the stand out and unspools the tubing, so he can get to the door.

He pushes it open and demands, despite the protesting of his throat, “Did I wake up in an alternate dimension?”

Every eye in the room turns to look at him.

“Peter!” Doctor S exclaims and he sounds pleased. Well, that's one person on his side anyway.

“ _Shut up!_ ” Tony snarls.

Steve's whole face tenses, his jaw clenching. “Peter, get back in bed.”

“Dad, you realize this is insane, right? You _taped a man to a chair._ ”

“How are you feeling, Peter? What have your symptoms been like the last twenty-four hours?”

“ _I told you to be quiet, Scabel!”_ Tony barks. “ _I'm not gonna ask nicely again!_ ”

“I feel like I got the flu and then got hit by a bus,” Peter says to Scabel, deliberately ignoring his dad. He drags the corner of his mouth up into a crooked smile. “But that's to be expected, right?”

Clint cuts across the room, waving his hands in a low shooing motion. “Pete, go back to bed, we'll handle this—”

Peter stares at him incredulously. “That's _so_ not gonna happen. You guys have totally lost it, you know that, right? _My_ family would never do something like this.” He waves a hand wildly at Scabel. Then his voice bitters. “But then I guess my family was never gonna let me be an Avenger either, so maybe I don't know them as well as I thought.”

Clint steps back, but it's an involuntary kind of motion, like he's rocking back from a blow.

“Peter,” Aunt Betty breathes, and out of the corner of his eye, Peter can see twin looks of shock on his dads' faces. Good. Maybe that'll clear out their ears.

Scabel inches closer, pulling himself along with the heels of his feet. “Have you started cramping yet?” he asks. “Are you stronger? Have you done any tests for that sort of thing?”

“Nah, Doc, I've been kinda busy,” Peter says, and rubs at his forehead. Stupid headache. The Doc is just a few feet away now and Peter jolts, realizes he's still _taped to a chair_. “Crap, let me get that tape.”

He moves forward, hitching the blanket up higher on his shoulders and reaches for one of his wrists first. He misjudges the distance and meets nothing but thin air with his fingers.

“Wh't the...” he hears himself mumble, but it sounds funny, far off.

“Peter?” Scabel says. His voice sounds muffled.

The room swirls and Peter staggers.

Multiple voices cry out, and he feels something press up against his front. Then he doesn't feel much of anything.

~ 

The next thing Peter registers is the sound of voices. Steve's voice in particular is vibrating just beneath his ear and he realizes he's slumped against his dad's chest, curled up in his lap. That's a little embarrassing, but...nice. At least until it starts stoking the nausea in the pit of his stomach. Ugh.

“ _...Betty, dammit, I don't need you to tell me what we_ can't _do, I need you to tell me what we_ can _._ ”

“You can stay calm,” Betty replies, terse.

“ _I'm calm_ ,” Tony says and Peter would laugh if he had the energy because he's very clearly _not_. “ _Who says I'm not calm? I'm perfectly calm. Steve's the one losing his head here. I'm cool as a cucumber._ ”

“A cucumber on fire, maybe,” Steve says and one of his hands moves to Peter's back, his thumb rubbing circles on his shoulder.

Peter snorts. It makes his whole face ache, right to the roots of his hair.

“ _Hey_ ,” Tony says. “ _Was that movement? Is he awake? Peter? Buddy?_ ”

It takes Hulk-suppression level effort to pry his eyes open and the fluorescent lights stab straight into his brain. “Yeah, Dad,” he says and it feels like he's talking through a throat lined with crumpled paper.

“ _Steve, hey, come on_ ,” Tony says, “ _get me closer so he doesn't have to strain, pull me around_.” Peter's human pillow shifts as Dad does as requested. As soon as he's squared, Tony's expression softens and some of the tension eases away. “ _How're you feeling, Bambi?_ ”

“Shitty,” Peter mumbles and feels more than hears the noise of disapproval Steve makes.

“Language.”

“'s true,” Peter mutters and grimaces as he shifts. God, it's like he went too far sparring with Aunt Natasha, only _his whole body._ This process has been way longer and more unpleasant than he was hoping for.

“ _You still nauseous?_ ” Tony asks.

“Don't remind me,” Peter replies and rubs at his head. “What happened?”

Tony's eyes cut toward Betty, narrowing. “ _Betty thinks you overexerted yourself. You passed out._ ”

“Okay,” Peter croaks. “Just a second.” And he heaves himself out of Steve's lap, scrabbling for the basin next to the bed as he gags and chokes until it feels like the muscles in his abdomen are going to rip off of his skeleton. When the spasms finally ease, Peter slumps into his dad's grip, arms shaking so hard he can barely hold on to the basin with his sweat-slicked palms. His face is damp with sweat and maybe tears—that's definitely what's clumping his eyelashes together. Somebody, Betty maybe, takes the bowl away from him, so he can just pant and try to regroup his strength for a minute without the smell getting him started all over again.

“Peter?” Steve says, quiet and almost tentative.

Peter pushes back, feebly fighting his way away from him, and aside from the sharp aching in his wrists and his knees—and okay, pretty much everywhere—he feels a heck of a lot better. Weak as a tissue, but better. He pushes back the sweaty hair clinging to his forehead, wipes his mouth, and, his skin prickles with irritation, his annoyance at all their attention flaring. “I'm fine,” he says and bats Steve's hand away when he reaches forward again. “Dad. Stop. Leave me alone.”

Steve draws back, eyes sad and wounded. “Peter...”

“I don't need to be cuddled like a baby,” Peter snaps, and he's mad at them for not listening, mad at his body for not responding better, and mad about the sad twist of his dad's face. Why is he making that face? He's mad, too, isn't he?

“ _What is with the attitude all the sudden?”_ Tony demands. “ _Since when do you talk to Steve like that?”_

“Since you started treating me like I'm some dumb kid,” Peter shoots back at him. “Where's Doctor Scabel?”

“ _Hey_ ,” Tony says sharply. “ _We're treating you like a kid who did something incredibly dumb, who seems to have forgotten his actions have consequences.”_

Peter ignores him. “What did you do with Doctor Scabel?”

“We moved him,” Betty finally answers, though she doesn't really sound like she wants to. “His presence was obviously going to keep you from getting the rest you need.”

“I want to talk to him,” Peter says.

Steve shakes his head; he still looks hurt. “Peter, you know we're not going to let you do that.”

“Then get out!” Peter bursts. “Just— _get out!_ ”

Steve's mouth drops open and Peter's glad, it means that awful sad face is gone. He throws a pillow. His dad catches it easily, but he looks stunned, frozen.

“ _Go!_ ” Peter shouts and Aunt Betty curls her hand around Steve's elbow. Peter throws another pillow and this time his dad doesn't catch it. It hits his shoulder and he flinches like it might actually hurt him.

“ _Unbelievable,_ ” he hears Tony mutter. “ _You are in a_ world _of tro—”_

Peter hits the monitor power button and it shuts off. Then he yanks the blankets up over his head, choking on his own uneven breaths. He's not sure if he's angry or crying or what. Maybe both. Everything's gone all wrong. He was supposed to be super by now. His dads were supposed to understand.

How did it fall apart so fast?

~

JARVIS, the magnificent son of a bitch, follows with the cameras as Steve retreats from Peter's room, and activates a nearby monitor when Steve slumps into a quiet corner of the MedBay. Tony hates that he can't reach out and touch him.

“Hey,” he says instead, “you okay?”

“ _Yeah, it's just..._ ” Steve's mouth quirks up on one side, but there's no humor in it. “ _Tough. I know pushing back is part of being a teenager, and we've been lucky so far. I just never expected to be fighting about risking his life._ ”

Tony huffs wryly. “We've been so focused on dealing with outside threats we never prepped for internal ones.”

“ _Yeah,_ ” Steve says and sighs. “ _Looks like we put up a boundary in the wrong place_.”

“When he's calmed down we talk and remind him that he doesn't have to like what we tell him to do, but that doesn't change the fact that he has to do it and there are consequences if he doesn't.” He shakes his head, looking around the dark interior of the plane as he rolls a tumbler between his hands.

“ _He's so_ angry _,”_ Steve says. “ _How long must he have been holding onto this?_ ”

“Too long,” Tony replies.

On the screen, Steve straightens and pushes out of the corner, his eyes fixed off-screen. _“Tasha,”_ he says and a few seconds later Natasha joins him inside the frame.

She glances over at Tony and then says to both of them: “ _I've got his research_.”

“Fantastic, queen of my Tower, we owe you.”

Natasha smiles slightly, but shakes her head. “ _Don't be ridiculous, I want to get this guy almost as much as you do. I'm going to go get this loaded up so you can get to work.”_

Okay, Tony thinks, now they're cooking with gas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Puking, illegal detainment of a bad guy cont.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, reminder that I am not a science person so the science herewithin is probably laughable at best. Forgive me!!
> 
> Also, I'm somewhat uncertain about this chapter, I didn't really get to the point where I was like _yeah, this feels pretty good_ so I hope it fits. Your feedback is much appreciated and thank you all again for all your comments.  <3333
> 
> Oh and major major thanks to windscryer who is responsible for probably 50% of this chapter! She's a lifesaver.
> 
> No warnings for this chapter, unless excess of italics counts. Sorryyy. -_-

Bruce rolls the fine focus knob ever so slightly, bringing the contents of the slide into sharper relief. Tony has a very nice electron microscope, one that every university Bruce knows of would pay dearly to possess, but for some things he prefers a slightly more traditional approach. 

Besides, at the moment the EM is processing a whole batch of samples under JARVIS' direction, so it isn't available. 

He's groggy, which is understandable, given they're marching steadily toward two AM, and he's only just woken from a four hour nap. 

Betty had pulled him aside when he'd gotten into the lab to tell him that the radiation that had become detectable just that afternoon is already well on it's way toward doubling. It's unsettling news. 

His lips move as he counts each type of cell, his head lifting at the end of each cycle to look at the paper where he's taking notes. Or, well, the StarkPad. Close enough. It even has lines on it and Tony designed a stylus that looks like a ballpoint pen just for him. 

And, probably, because it amused him to see other people steal the pen and try to write on regular paper. 

Bruce has learned which battles to fight and which ones to let go and it actually is pretty amusing anyway. 

He could write his notes without looking away, but his eyes need the break from the harsh light of the scope and it gives him a chance to glance at the video feed of Tony. 

It isn't a reassuring picture, but that's all the more reason to keep looking. There will come a point—probably in the not too distant future—when Tony's doing himself more harm than Peter good and he'll have to be banished from the work. Bruce doesn't expect that to be easy, but it will be necessary all the same. For now though, while he's on that flight, alone, he needs the distraction. 

The chatter that normally runs as soundtrack to their working together in the lab—a lab, any lab—has ground to a halt. Tony is, for his standard values of activity, unnaturally still. 

Bruce extends his break and notes Tony's gaze; he can tell it's stuck on the image he has of Peter in the clear-walled observation room at one end of the lab. It can be locked down with negative pressure to make it a quarantine, but things aren't quite that dire, yet. 

Thank God, because Bruce does not relish the idea of having to talk Tony into a radiation suit just to get close to his son. 

The bitchfit that would follow about how it's un-fucking-fair that he has to when Steve doesn't and how it's his choice anyway if he wants to expose himself to whatever Peter's giving off, that they share half the same DNA anyway so how bad can it be? might be enough for Bruce to have to excuse himself to keep from ruining their chances of ever figuring out how to counter this. He already feels responsible for what's happened. 

When Tony starts willfully ignoring scientific principles in favor of doing whatever the hell he wants, the situation has truly reached critical mass. 

Bruce is hoping to avoid that. 

The sooner they know what Scabel's serum is and therefore the sooner they can stop and/or fix it, the easier that will be to avoid. 

That in mind, Bruce writes down his numbers and goes back for another look. 

Tony's moving again by the time he's finished with the slide, has been for a few minutes, pacing in and out of the frame. 

At some point he's picked up a pair of ice tongs and started tapping out a rhythm on his twitching fingers. 

He occasionally stops at one of the displays running in his make-shift control center, shuffles about the graphs and charts and resizes them up and down, lips moving but rarely speaking aloud, makes an expression or two of anger, worry, frustration, or all three, glances back at Peter's feed, and begins pacing and tapping again. 

Years of practice are all that keep Bruce from shutting him out so he can work in peace. Well, that and the understanding that Tony needs to be doing something—or at least feeling like he is—or he would explode, if not himself, something else. 

"Next slide," Bruce says and holds out his hand, the sample he's done with held upright between his third and fourth fingers, the second waiting to pinch the new slide against the third. DUM-E obligingly swings it into place, then takes the old sample away. They're quite practiced at the exchange now, so Bruce can watch Tony the whole time. 

Tony somehow feels his stare because he turns and flashes a grin, the quick, automatic kind he usually reserves for media, elected officials, and Fury—when he wants to be especially annoying. 

" _So what are we looking at so far?_ " he says, plopping down into his seat, fingers splaying to enlarge the feed where Bruce is shown, and then...sighing, his shoulders dropping as he wipes a hand over his face. 

He's been stressed beyond the norm in the last week and every second of that is written in his posture and his face. How he's been managing to this point is something of a mystery to Bruce. 

Not a surprise, he's seen it and worse before, but still a mystery. 

His eyes are hooded, his mouth a grim line. He'd look better if he was the one in the quarantine room and he has neither Peter's youth nor his enhanced DNA. 

Bruce takes a moment to muster his most reassuring smile. "Peter's in the best possible hands there are. We'll fix this," he says. 

Tony tries to smile back, but doesn't quite make it, his lips doing a weird sort of twitch instead. 

He gives up quickly, dropping his head onto folded arms and inhaling and exhaling deeply three times. 

Then he lifts his head again until he can rest his chin on his forearms and nods with a quick jerk. " _What've we got?_ " 

Bruce brings a hand up to scratch at his head, the other tapping his notes and drawing the command to have them assimilated into the rest of the data. When the confirmation flashes, he sends it to the big screen that syncs to one on Tony's plane and minimizes the others already there. 

Tony's bloodshot eyes scan the information, taking it in and, Bruce is hoping, seeing something other than what he is. 

Tony's brows furrow, though, and he says, " _Wait, what?_ " 

Damn. 

Tony looks at him and Bruce realizes he's said that aloud. Oops. 

" _So it's not just me?_ " Tony says. " _This isn't really my area of expertise_ —" And Bruce can't resist the snort, because 'not my area of expertise' with Tony is more along the lines of 'I've read more about it than most people employed in the field and might as well have a degree, but I just haven't taken the time to actually get the paper diploma'. "— _but shouldn't the white cell counts be going down?_ " He glances at Bruce again and sits up. " _I mean, with the radiation and all_..." His words trail off and then he starts gesturing to manipulate the displays and take it all in. Bruce wishes him more success than he's had, but isn't counting on it. 

"Well, in typical cases of radiation exposure and poisoning, yes, that would be the case." 

Tony flinches at the words "radiation exposure and poisoning" but that is, technically, what they're looking at. 

Except it isn't going the way it should. 

That's both good and bad news. 

" _Well, this was definitely not a typical case_ ," Tony mutters. " _Son of a bitch_." His voice goes up in volume as he continues, his hands moving faster and faster as he builds up steam. " _Why spiders anyway? Who the hell needs radioactive spiders? Even if this was his end goal, to spread some kind of radioactive venom that increased in the human body, why the hell would you choose spiders? No one voluntarily sits there and lets a spider bite them. Dogs or cats would be much more effective. People will let them do all kinds of shit that would grant exposure. Spiders though, people just kill. Or ignore. But even when they kill it's not by touching them directly, it's with a ten foot pole or a vacuum cleaner or spray. No chance of exposure. Fucking_ _idiot,"_ he snarls and throws his copy of the display out with a vengeance. 

His head drops down again, caught by his upraised hands, fingers tunneling into his already messy hair. He stares at the tabletop, eyes moving back and forth like he's reading something in the surface there. 

This is one of the rare times Bruce wishes Tony weren't so goddamned brilliant. 

And that he, Bruce, believed in lying to the family of a patient. 

It would be nice to say he has some idea of what's going on and that Tony and Steve shouldn't worry, that Peter's going through a rough patch and that it might get worse before it gets better, but that it _will_ get better. 

He could actually do that with Steve, whose brain has been enhanced by the serum, true, but who hasn't studied medicine like Bruce and Tony. Besides, Steve still likes to believe that people are being honest, especially people he knows he can trust, and so he'd take that as gospel and nod and relax a little bit because everything was under control. 

Tony, though, there's no way to bullshit Tony, short of locking him out of this lab and feeding him false information in another one. 

Even then, he'd still probably figure it out and hack into the system and force JARVIS to give him the real data and then he'd stop trusting Bruce and things would get _really_ bad, because you can do a lot of things that Tony will forgive, but lying and manipulation are not among them. 

No, a worried Tony working in cooperation is much better than a worried and bitter Tony working in opposition. 

Tony shifts the weight of his head to one hand, the fingers of the other digging into his eye sockets and pinching the bridge of his nose. He sighs, heavily, and says, " _Okay, so white blood cells going up, toxins and radiation going up_..." He frowns and lifts his head, pressing his fist into his mouth and drumming his fingers on his skull. " _He's fighting it, or, well, trying to_ ," he says, blinking and tilting his head to the side further. 

Bruce hates to be the voice of reason, but someone has to be. "Fighting what?" he asks. "The radiation? The venom? Both? And how? And, even if he is fighting it, why is it going _up?"_

That's the biggest conundrum. Trying to fight off the foreign substances in his body is perfectly normal. Succeeding, as the raised white cell count implies, is unusual, but Peter's DNA isn't exactly normal to begin with. 

But how the _hell_ is the concentration of toxin and level of radiation increasing? 

" _Virus_." Tony blinks again and sits up straight, turning to look at Bruce. _"Virus,"_ he repeats. 

"Uhhh, nooo? It's not a virus, Tony. First of all, that makes even less sense, and second of all, there's nothing like that in his blood." 

Bruce would know, having spent hours looking at it under all levels and types of magnification. 

" _Nonono, not, like_ —" Tony sighs and runs a hand through his hair. " _Not like an actual virus, I'm not saying that. But the behavior is viral in nature_." 

Bruce frowns. 

" _You said the serum looked like a vaccine. So what if it's got some component that works like a virus? It's... It's using Peter's body to replicate, or, well, manufacture, the point is the same. The extra toxins and radioactive particles aren't coming in from an outside source and they're sure as hell not already there just waiting to be activated, so something must be producing them_." 

"Like a virus," Bruce says. And it's still crazy, because biology doesn't work that way, but, well, Bruce has seen whole encyclopedias worth of things biology didn't do come to horrifying life since his own experience turning science on its ear. 

Tony's expression is as animated as Bruce has seen it all night—in a good way, not in a destructive way—and there's actually something like hope in his eyes. 

Small, a spark more than an actual flicker, but there all the same. 

Bruce isn't about to let it die now. 

"Okay," he says, shifting on his stool to wake his ass up from the numbness that had settled in awhile ago. "Like a virus. Using Peter's own cells to somehow produce the venom and make it radioactive." He inhales, holds it, and blows the breath out slowly. "I don't know if you can keep calling him an idiot," he says almost absently as he starts making notes on his Pad. 

Tony frowns and jerks back at that. " _What? Why the hell not?_ " 

Bruce gestures with his stylus. "He may very well have birthed an entirely new branch of science here, Tony. He's irresponsible in how he's using it, but this is not the fruit of idiocy." 

Tony's lip curls and his eyes narrow and he almost snarls, but he finally concedes, " _Okay, fine_." He looks over and says, with complete seriousness, " _What about fuckwad? Can I call him a fuckwad?_ " 

Bruce has to swallow a snort. "That's not very politically correct—" 

" _Flopping dickweasel it is._ " 

Tony's gaze drops to the tabletop where his fingers are drumming and then rise to look at the observation room feed where Peter sleeps on. 

"I need coffee," he says at last and vanishes from view. 

~ 

Peter's temperature climbs back up to 103 around four AM and he starts throwing up so frequently he's dry-heaving. 

Steve finds it painful to watch, small, sob-like sounds hiccuping out of him as his body clenches with enough effort to cause him obvious pain. Tony's no better, flinching every time his eyes slip past the window containing the video feed, his eyes glassy. Steve thinks it's probably one of the worst things he's ever endured and he's been through a laundry list of things most people would shudder to even contemplate. 

He's sitting grimly at Peter's bedside—no longer attempting to touch because Peter complained he was too hot and that the pressure of his hands made him ache—when Peter gags hard enough it wrenches him into the fetal position. Steve leans forward, pressing the basin into the bed as close to him as he can. Peter heaves again and whimpers, clutching at his ribs. 

Then again and again and again until he's panting into the mattress, tears leaking down both cheeks. 

“Peter...” he says, and can hear the ache in his own voice. 

“D-don't,” Peter chokes. “L-l-leave me alone.” 

Steve leans back in the chair and covers his mouth, bracing his legs to keep himself back. 

Watching Peter suffer has never been easy—not when it was from the flu, not when it was because the kids at school used to torment him, not when it was his first nightmare after they came home wounded once he was old enough to understand. Steve knows it's something that most parents deal with, but he thinks the ferocity of it is in part because of how hard he and Tony had had to work to have Peter. 

For two full years, they'd spent every spare minute visiting doctors and scientists, discussing Tony's plans for the Ex-Utero device—a complete mechanical incubation system for the development of a human child. It had felt like all of Steve's time was wrapped up in working or researching babies and conception. Tony, who had an even more crucial role as the creator of the device, had literally worked himself to exhaustion consulting with OB-GYN experts on its development and creation. 

The prototype had taken Tony seven months to complete, and, after a gamut of tests, the combination of their genetic material had been the first trial. 

Backlash from the public had been huge. Religious groups had claimed that they were openly defying God and for months all the media news outlets talked about the potential for failure. Pro-life groups had been outraged and claimed that if something happened during the process and the life that they had conceived failed, it was tantamount to murder. 

That wasn't to say they hadn't had any support—the medical community had rallied around them, defending Tony's device and the science behind it. LGBTQ+ communities had poured forth support and when Steve had found himself questioning what they were doing, going to look at the webpages where thousands of queer people around the world had gone to leave messages of hope and joy had helped quell those fears. 

The Ex-Utero pregnancy hadn't been perfect, and there were a couple of times when it had genuinely looked like they would lose the little life growing inside, but between Tony and the team of doctors they'd worked with, Peter had survived to birth. 

Steve remembers holding him for the first time, his tiny, red face screwed up and smaller than the palm of Steve's hand. He was the most beautiful, most incredible thing Steve had ever seen. 

He looks at Peter now, bigger, so much bigger, and his face is screwed up just the same. He's still a marvel, Steve and Tony's perfect little boy. 

~ 

" _How's he doing?_ "

Steve looks away from the sight of his restlessly sleeping kid to his almost as exhausted husband.

"He's still sleeping," Steve reports, though Tony has his own feed and can even see the readouts from all of the machines monitoring Peter. He probably understands at least some of them, which means he knows better than Steve how Peter's doing, but it's something to say, Steve supposes.

" _His temperature's gone down a half a degree_ ," Tony reports, finger flicking over a display just off camera. His head rests in the crook of his other arm on the top of the table, the closest he's gotten to a bed since early this morning for him. Of course it's morning already here in New York, so his day isn't going to end anytime soon unless Steve can get him to stop moving long enough to crash. He silently debates the ethics of giving Tony decaf coffee against Peter's worsening health. If something happens and Tony's asleep… It won't be pretty, that's for sure.

But Tony ending up in another medical bed because he's run himself into the ground isn't a solution either.

" _Steve?_ "

He blinks and refocuses his gaze. "Sorry. Just… woolgathering."

Tony gives him a weak smile as he shifts around to rest his chin on his crossed wrists. " _Long day._ "

"Yeah," Steve sighs. Maybe the longest of his life, and that's saying something.

Silence drifts down on them as Steve's attention shifts back to Peter for a few minutes. He's just contemplating getting up and going over to check his son's temperature again with his hand to see if he can feel the decrease when Tony speaks.

" _Ass monkey given anything up yet?_ "

"Tony," Steve reproves, but without any real heat. He's too tired and agrees with Tony's anger a little too much to feel any real sympathy for the man. Still in pajamas, he looks small and not at all dangerous, but then neither had Erskine. Or maybe Zola was a more appropriate comparison, given how things were turning out.

"Nothing any of us can understand. Bruce is...concerned about his ability to have a useful conversation."

" _I say we let Hulk have at him_ ," Tony says, only half joking.

Steve eyes the hunched form of Bruce's back. "I don't think a human paste will be very talkative."

Tony gives a short laugh. " _Yeah. Maybe not_."

"I don't suppose you've…" Steve starts.

Tony's sigh is full of frustration as he sits up and rakes a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. " _No. Not anything useful. But tinkering with the human body's never been my area of interest or expertise. I'm having to spend as much time looking up what he's talking about as actually reading his—very generously termed—notes. Seriously, I think the barely legible scribblings from my MIT days could do more for helping a caveman build a rocket to the moon than these sentence fragments and— and doodles._ " He flings a hand at something Steve can't see and says, " _I honestly can't tell if this is meant to be words or if his pen was just running out of ink_ ." 

"Don't stress over it too much, Tony."

" _Don't stress over— Don't stress over it?_ " 

Oh no. That register change is one Steve's intimately familiar with after two decades of marriage.

"Tony—" He tries to head off the explosion, but it's far, far too late for that, he realizes. All he can do now is ride it out until Tony wears himself back down.

" _In the last week, our son has gone from sniffles to having seizures and producing radioactive material in his bones in the biggest middle finger to science since Bruce and the Hulk smashed onto the scene. There might—might—be a silver lining, but it's sure as hell isn't gonna be all sunshine and roses until we find it and statistics favor this ending very badly for all of us._ " 

"I know, Tony—" Steve says.

" _Do you? Do you know exactly how bad things can go with this? Did they show you pictures of the people who had gone before you in Dr. Erskine's experiment? Have you seen the people who came after? Did they have video of the way some people who've chased the serum have reacted? Death is the least terrible way this can end if it doesn't work. Insanity, gross physical deformity, hell, supposedly one guy literally melted into a puddle of goo when his DNA couldn't keep with with whatever havoc that version of the serum played with his genes._ " 

"I've seen the files, yes," Steve says, unable to keep the flat, cold tone from his voice. He'd seen them and he'd never forget them. And, God help them all, he didn't want that to happen to Peter. He'd give his own life to spare his son even one second of the horrors that had come from the experimentation both before and after him. "But I don't want to lose both of you to this. I don't want to lose either of you at all. I want you to do everything you can to help Peter, to reverse this or fix this or just stabilize it enough that his mistake won't kill him. Just not at the expense of your own health. Please."

That knocks the wind out of Tony's sails and his shoulders slump, far sooner than Steve expected or hoped.

He sits again, dropping heavily into the chair and continuing forward, his elbows propping up his hands to support his head. Steve glances over his shoulder at a sound from Peter's room and then Tony is demanding, " _What? What is it? Shit. Bruce!_ "

He's seen or heard it too, his head swinging up as he spins on his stool to stare at the room where Peter lies far too still, Steve realizes with a jolt. He rises to his feet before he even thinks about it and takes one step toward the room as Bruce races through the sliding door before he stops again. His fists clench at his sides. He doesn't know what to do. Should he go in there and see for himself what's going on? Can he even do anything to help or is he just going to be in the way?

" _Hey!_ " Tony barks, and Steve thinks it's for him until he turns and sees Tony staring at one of his other monitors. " _Back your ass_ _up, Dr. Mengele._ " Steve turns back and sees Scabel scowling, chair scooted out toward the middle of the room where they're keeping him. " _Nobody told you you could move_ ," Tony continues, " _and if you have anything useful to say you can start talking at any time._ "

" _I just need to examine_ —"

" _You don't need to examine anything but your own non-existent sense of ethics_ ," Tony sneers. " _And if you think we're going to let you anywhere near Peter again, you've got another thing coming. When we've got him fixed—when—there isn't a gag order that lawyers have or will invent that's gonna keep my mouth shut. You're going to be on so many academic blacklists you won't be able to get a goddamn card for the public library._ " 

Scabel's expression goes from cowed and worried to mulish and angry as Tony issues his threat and he practically hisses his response. " _You castigate me for my lack of ethics, and yet you married the result of an experiment far more risky and ethically questionable than my own. We knew almost nothing about genetics when Erskine proposed his theories for manipulating the human body on a basic level. The very structure of DNA wouldn't be discovered until nearly a decade after Captain Rogers vanished under the ice! At least I know what pieces of the human body I am playing God with!"_

" _Abraham Erskine may not have known what shape DNA is, but he knew a helluva lot more than you do a century later because his experiment_ worked _._ _And even if he did blindly stumble onto the answer, at least he wasn't playing God with children. He used adults. Fully grown and capable of legally and consciously consenting to letting him screw with their bodies and accepting the consequences if it didn't work out. That is your problem_ ," Tony says, jabbing an accusing finger. " _You're so sure that you know better than any of the dozens of scientists just like you who failed—also just like you—that you're willing to cut corners and throw professional ethics out the window just to prove it. Only this time it's not some poor bunny that's gonna bite it when you're proven wrong again. It's my kid who's going to pay the price for your hubris. And if you think I won't demand my pound of flesh and more, regardless of the outcome, then you are_ sorely _mistaken_ ." 

Whatever rebuttal Scabel may have is cut off by the swish of the door as Bruce emerges from the isolation room. 

He leans back against the door for a moment to catch his breath. "Peter is fine. His temperature spiked along with his heart rate, but they're both going back down again and neither one is close enough to any danger zones to be a concern. How long that will last is anyone's guess." 

Steve prays it will. 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only warnings for this chapter are high anxiety and nail biting!

In the last hour of the flight, Tony loses the capacity to focus all together.

He swipes through file after file after file, reading a word here and a word there, unable to make himself stop long enough to take in any more than that. He feels like he's going to shake apart.

When he finally gets frustrated by his inability to make any progress with the files, he throws himself out of the chair and starts pacing, listening to the feed of the quiet lab. It only makes his antsiness worse.

He fusses around at the bar, moving glasses around and stacking them in different configurations, rearranging the bottles. He drinks a little more scotch. The morning light streams in through the small plane windows, cold and muted by cloud cover. It's gloomy, especially compared to the late-summer sunshine in Australia, and Tony goes around closing all of the shades to shut it out.

Then he goes to the door of the cockpit and hits the intercom. “Charles, can we speed this up any?”

“ _No, sir. I'm sorry, sir.”_

Tony mutters irritably under his breath and is about to stage another attempt when Steve speaks up. “ _Tony, leave him alone. Distracting him isn't going to get you here any sooner.”_

“It might,” Tony says and pulls himself away from the intercom, back to the table where his monitors are set up. Steve is peering into the camera at one of the stations in the lab. Tony taps it and brings it center stage. “You look tired,” he realizes.

“ _You say the sweetest things_.”

“Shut up, I'm serious,” he grumbles. “How long have you been up anyway?”

“ _Ah_ ,” Steve frowns and scrubs a hand through his hair, the little furrow Tony loves digging in between his eyebrows. “ _Going on...twenty-seven hours I guess._ ”

“Hm,” Tony says, “nowhere near the record, but combined with the stress... No wonder you look a little ragged. Peter's sleeping, you should catch some shut-eye while you can.”

“ _Back at you.”_

Tony lets out a bark of humorless laughter. “Yeah, no. I'm so keyed up I can't even sit still, Steve.”

“ _Don't have to tell me.”_ Steve nods and Tony looks down to find himself tapping at the surface of the table at a frenetic pace, every finger involved. He slouches back in the chair and shoves his hands under his arms.

“See. I'm gonna lose it. I'm losing it already.”

“ _Can't lose what was already gone_ ,” Steve says and the corner of his mouth twitches upward.

“Mister Stark,” the stewardess interrupts, and he twists in his chair to look at her, “the Captain is asking everyone to buckle up for our descent.”

Tony sits up, heart starting to beat a little quicker. “Finally! _”_

He should feel better, now that they're finally in New York, but the sensation of the plane dropping toward the runway kicks his anxiety into high-gear. He fidgets, dragging the nearest window open again so he can stare down at the landscape as they judder overhead, tiny cars slinking by under low-hanging smudges of cloud.

His fingers clench around the armrests as the plane touches down with a jerk and a roar. Watching the ground creep by outside as they lumber toward the gate is torture.

“ _You're almost home, Tony. Just a little longer._ ”

“Not close enough,” Tony mutters.

“ _Closer than you were twelve hours ago.”_

“Somehow, this feels worse.” The plane rolls to a stop and Tony forces himself to wait five full seconds. Then he looks back at the screen and kisses his fingertips, blows on them. “All right, we're here. I'm going offline.”

He doesn't give Steve much of a chance to respond, quickly moving to shut down the station so he can be out ASAP.

Tony grits his teeth while he waits for the crew to open the door. Then while they get the stairs situated, and _then_ while they get them secured. His fingers hurt from how hard he's clenching his fists, barely resisting the urge to throw a punch at anyone who gets within striking distance. He takes the stairs two at a time when given the all clear and groans in frustration at the sight of the customs agent waiting for him a couple yards from the plane.

Forcing a smile, he brandishes his papers, already filled out by the crew. He waits while the agent examines them, trying to contain his impatiently tapping feet while they ask him asinine questions like _did you bring any fruits or vegetables back with you, sir?_ No, he didn't fucking bring anything back with him, he spent the entire time with mourning families for Christ's sake.

It's freezing, and well-made as his leather jacket is, it doesn't stand much of a chance against the strong winds cutting across the Tarmac. The cold bites at his cheeks and leaves him shivering, his eyes watering. The air even _smells_ restless, like something is coming.

When the agent hands back his paperwork, Tony points in the direction of the terminal and raises his voice to be heard. “I'm good to go?”

“Yes, sir, have a nice day,” the guy says and Tony nods, cuts him a wave, and he takes off. He doesn't care if it looks suspicious.

There are a handful of people he vaguely recognizes from SI and beyond them, a black towncar. Beyond _that_ he can see a pack of paps like runners waiting for the gun at the gate to the airfield.

“Mister Stark—” one of the SI people says and he cuts her off with a wave of his hand.

“Not now, don't care. Whatever it is can wait.”

“But Mister Stark,” another one starts and he ignores him. Happy smiles at him from beside the car and that brings Tony up short for a second.

“Glad to have you back, Boss.”

Tony tips his head. “What are you doing here? Is this even your job anymore? Because if I remember right—”

Happy opens the door for him. “No, but like Cap's always saying, you can't ask your people to do something you wouldn't do yourself. And anyway, Pepper and I figured one of the other guys'd get your blood pressure up too much.”

“Uh huh,” Tony says, and slides into the car, admitting to himself that he's glad it's Happy.

The front door opens and Happy climbs in and smiles reassuringly at him in the rear view. “Relax, Boss. You know I'll get you back, safe and sound, just like the old days.”

Tony smiles, though it feels brittle. Happy's easy-going confidence is reassuring, but it doesn't do much to stymie the growing unease in the pit of his stomach. He taps a staccato rhythm out on his knees as they pull away from the plane, and asks, “How's traffic?”

Happy glances back at him. “Not too bad, little congestion in the Tunnel, but we should be there in a little over a half hour.”

“Half hour,” Tony mutters to himself, and curses the universe because he could be there in _two minutes_ in the goddamn suit. Shit. How the hell had he forgotten the suit?

As they creep through the gate the reporters are yelling questions loud enough it sounds something like a jet engine. Tony focuses hard as he can on texting _Happy picked up. Home in 30._ He finishes in time to watch the car slip past the last few reporters and out onto the road.

Whatever Happy says, the trip feels like an eternity.

He makes it two minutes before the text seems too long ago. He thumbs the screen of his phone, debating whether or not he should call Steve. Not a hell of a lot is going to happen in a half hour, surely. And he's been on the line with Steve with hardly any break for hours and, yeah, Steve loves him and it's reassuring to be able to talk to him and see his face and he probably wouldn't mind if Tony called, but he should probably give him some breathing room. No need for him to get all clingy now.

Tony scrapes his thumbnail over his lower lip—chapped from the way he's been raking his teeth over it—and tosses the phone aside. Yeah. He can go thirty minutes without harassing Steve.

The clouds are darkest over Manhattan, distended to the skyline and clinging to it like a shroud. The Tower isn't really visible from out here anyway, but not seeing it makes Tony nervous nevertheless. He squirms and glances over at his phone.

The car moves along the turnpike in small bursts, stopping and starting and stopping and starting until Tony wants to scream. How could he have forgotten the fucking _suit?_ “Sorry, Boss,” Happy says, apologetic eyes framed in the rear view. “There's been a wreck.”

“Of course there has,” Tony mutters. He eyes the bar and grits his teeth as they jerk to a stop for the thousandth time.

He's tapping at the arc reactor when his phone blares with an obnoxious klaxxon and starts vibrating across the seat. It's not Steve. He knows instantly that it's not Steve, or anyone else who might be calling about Peter, because the stupid klaxxon is the default ringer reserved for irritations. Tony answers it just to have something to _do_.

“What?” he snaps.

“ _Mister Stark, can I get a statement about your premature return from Australia? Yesterday we learned that Peter has been sick for the better part of a week, is your return related to his illness?”_

“Lose this number, or I will see that you lose your job,” Tony replies coldly. “How's that for a statement?”

He hangs up before they can respond.

Asshole.

Thirty seconds later the phone rings again.

“I swear to god,” he snarls and viciously stabs the _ignore_ prompt.

The sound of muffled horns outside the car is interrupted by the shrill chime indicating he's got a voicemail. Then the klaxxon goes off _again._

He fumbles with the phone, gripping it so hard he'd be afraid of damage if all the Avengers' phones weren't created to endure pretty much everything except being dropped into actual magma, and manages to turn it off after four attempts. That done, he throws it and it skids across the seat, clattering down into the space between the seat and the door. “ _Son of a bitch!_ ”

“Boss,” Happy says warily.

Tony shuts the divider, biting his tongue as it takes its sweet time sliding toward the ceiling, because Happy doesn't deserve to take the brunt of his frustration.

They've finally reached the Lincoln Tunnel and he leans back in his seat and tries to breathe as the car slinks into the darkness. Halfway there. Halfway there. Okay, he can do this. He can, really.

He starts biting the corners of his fingernails, the awful habit he picked up from Steve.

Tony wonders what Steve's doing, if he's still sitting next to Peter's bed or if he's bothered eating. Twelve hours is a long time for Steve to go without food. He gets cranky and if he goes too long, shaky. Peter's the same way and the effect is only amplified by the fact that he's growing so goddamned much all the time. He eats like an army.

Tony realizes he hasn't seen Peter eat hardly anything in the last week, and with all the throwing up he's doing that can't be good. Maybe that's why he's not getting better. If his body isn't getting the fuel it needs then how is it supposed to fix itself? It needs energy.

Bruce and Betty probably know that, but maybe he'd better call and make sure. Except he turned his goddamned phone off and threw it—

Shit.

He moves across the seat, sickly bars of light sliding down his chest and over his thighs, and starts groping around. God, what if Steve's called and his phone's off? What the hell was he thinking? He should have blocked the fucking number, not _turned his phone off._

Tony has just as much trouble getting the phone turned back _on_ as he did turning it off and he bites a chunk of thumbnail that comes off with skin and swears as blood starts beading in the crease around it. He sucks it up, waiting impatiently as his phone boots.

It doesn't take as long as those worthless Apple pieces of crap, but it takes long enough. Of course, they're in the _Lincoln fucking Tunnel_ so of course he doesn't have service _anyway._ He looks up and curses himself again when he sees the divider, blocking his view of the road ahead.

They finally emerge what feels like an eon later, and it's nearly as dark here as it was in the tunnel. Tony shifts to peer up at the sky, which seems impossibly more ominous. Staring at the indicators doesn't make his service come back any quicker, but it _does_ come back. He gives it a few seconds, worrying at the nail of his ring finger, but no new texts or messages appear.

So he calls Steve.

And feels his heart skip into his throat when Steve doesn't pick up.

Why the hell isn't he picking up?

They're stuttering along the street past people clutching hats and other items in tight fists while the wind tries to pry them away. He can hear it, moaning through the nooks and crannies of the car. Tony cranes his neck to look for the Tower and can't see past the bleak, gray buildings looming over the street. He calls again.

This time when Steve doesn't answer, he opens the divider.

“Hey, Boss,” Happy says and his voice is gratingly cheerful, “we're almost there. Two or three minutes and you'll be home at last.”

“Goddammit,” Tony snaps and Happy blinks at him. “Steve's not answering his goddamned phone,” Tony says, by way of explanation.

“Oh,” Happy says. “Well, I'm sure he just set it aside. No need to panic.”

“I'm not panicking!”

He's not _not_ panicking either.

What if Steve's not answering because something's gone wrong with Peter? _Radiation poisoning,_ Bruce said, he could be red and raw and blistering. Tony's brain calls up the memory of the dying rabbit, helpfully copy-pasting that horror onto Peter's body and he feels cold in shivering waves. He imagines getting back and being faced with Steve's bleak expression, _He's dead, Tony_.

It's a near thing, but he manages to choke back the bile rising at the back of his throat.

Steve should be answering, _why isn't he answering?_

When the Tower looms over them, Tony presses up against the icy window, staring hard. Rain starts to speckle the glass. By the time they make it around the corner to the garage entrance, it's pouring.

“Here we are, Boss,” Happy says. “Home at last. Tell Peter I said hi, will you?”

“Yeah, sure,” Tony says and throws open the door. He bolts. “JARVIS,” he yells, voice echoing eerily around the garage, “medbay, now!”

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS replies and the doors close as Tony hits the back wall. The elevator accelerates rapidly and the roar of his heart pounding dulls as Tony's ears pop. A muzak, mellowed version of AC/DC seeps through the car—normally that makes him smile, but right now he wants to rip the speaker out with his bare hands. He waits with one hand on the wall next to the door, glancing over to check the floor every so often. It feels like the elevator's zooming along, but every time he looks it's only gone up a single digit. Come on, come on. _Go,_ you useless heap of steel!

Finally, twenty-four arrives.

The second the doors open, Tony squeezes through.

He sprints the rest of the way, slamming through doors, his heart in his throat. "Bruce!" he shouts as he barrels through the last door. “Steve?!”

Tony swears as he crashes into a lab stool. He bangs his elbow on the lab table when he trips and barks, “ _Fuck!”_ as pain spikes up his arm.

“Tony!” Steve says, looking startled, and Tony flails his arms until he backs off.

“How is, how is he?” he pants. “Where is he? Is he okay?”

“Are _you_ okay?” Steve says, hands reaching for him, but wisely not making contact.

“He's fine,” Bruce says, and he's talking slowly like Tony's on the edge of a nervous breakdown. “Are you?”

“I'm fine,” Tony snaps, and then again, sharper, when Bruce reaches for his arm, “I'm _fine_ , I want to know about Peter! Why the hell didn't you answer your phone? Is something wrong?”

“I left my phone in the lab and JARVIS was busy processing for Bruce; Tony, are you okay?”

“Will you relax about it, I'm _fine_ ,”Tony barks, and pushes Steve aside. When he looks through the glass to Peter's room and sees him blinking groggily, a frown creasing his forehead the same way it does Steve's, all the energy goes out of him in a rush. He droops onto the overturned stool, not caring how it digs into his thigh. “He's okay?” he repeats and this time when Steve's arms come around him, he sinks into the embrace, letting out a shaky breath. “Tell me he's okay.”

“For now he's fine,” Bruce confirms.

Steve's hand covers the back of his head, and Tony buries his face in his shoulder.

Steve hesitates. “He's okay, Tony,” he murmurs finally, lips brushing his hair. And it's not a lie Tony doesn't think, because it's Steve, and Steve doesn't lie, and even if it _is_ a lie, it's a good lie and one Tony wants to believe more than anything. For just a second he takes it and basks in it and savors the feeling before he has to face reality.

Finally, he's home.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to check the warnings!!

Steve retreats to a corner while Tony lets Peter know that he's home. He's not well-received and Steve grimaces at the way Tony's face falls in response to Peter rolling over to give him the cold shoulder. Tony swallows thickly a few times and then croaks, “Fair. You have every right to be angry.”

Peter doesn't respond and Tony sighs, but he knows when to leave well enough alone. Steve reaches out for his hand, drawing him in close as they cross back into the lab to give Peter his space. Steve presses a kiss to Tony's temple. “Sorry,” he says and means it. He knows how much it smarts when Peter's mad at them and knows Tony takes it even harder than he does.

“Parenting sucks,” Tony mutters.

“No arguments there,” Steve says with a crooked smile.

He's thumbing the rings under Tony's eyes, worried by how dark they are, when Thor comes through the door of the lab carrying two enormous serving trays, each loaded with food. Heaps of eggs, piles of bacon and sausage, towers of toast and pancakes, plus an entire stick of butter and several jars of syrup and jelly. Jane peeks out from behind him, smiling tentatively and carrying a column of plates with a jug of coffee balanced on top and a bag of cutlery hooked around her wrist. "Hey, look who we found," she says breathlessly and Steve straightens up as Thor moves aside to reveal Sam and Adla and their three girls. Steve feels a surge of warmth at the sight of them. He's missed Sam.

“We heard Peter was under the weather,” Sam says, his smile echoing back Steve's joy, and he and his wife each lift a container Steve guesses is filled with home-cooked food. “Addie makes a mean chicken soup.”  
  
"Does this look like a cafeteria?" Tony demands and Steve prods him pointedly in the shoulder.

“Hey, Tony, good to see you, too,” Sam drawls back and drags him into a hug. Steve catches the smile that Tony tries to hide in his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah, get off of me, Zippy.”  
  
"My heroes," Bruce says and abandons his microscope, breathing in deeply. "I'm starved. Is that coffee Colombian?"  
  
"Costa Rican," Thor says. "It is a powerful brew."  
  
"Excellent," Bruce murmurs and helps divest Jane of her load, smiling pleasantly despite his obvious weariness. "How are you?" he asks her, and Steve turns his attention to Thor, Sam, and Adla.  
  
"Thank you," he says, accepting Sam's hug. "We really needed this."  
  
Thor smiles and claps his shoulder. "We would choose to be nowhere else."  
  
Thor sets the trays down and Tony huffs at Steve. Under his breath, he mutters, "This is a lab. Eating in here is a terrible idea."  
  
"And yet you do it all the time," Bruce calls over, before going right back into his conversation with Jane.

  
"Fine, fine, I'll eat something if you're gonna twist my arm," Tony grumbles, but before he can get up, Steve's blocking his way off of his stool and catching his lips in a kiss. "Mmm," Tony hums, irritability melting away, and when Steve tries to pull back, Tony catches him by the hips and drags him forward again. "No, c'mere," he mutters into Steve's mouth. "This's way better than breakfast."  
  
"Better if you didn't taste like stale coffee and liquor," Steve murmurs in reply and smirks.  
  
Tony kisses him quiet, then till heat is creeping up the back of his skull before telling him between light pecks, "You don't taste too sweet either, Princess."  
  
That's when someone clears their throat.  
  
A flush races up the back of Steve's neck and Clint drawls, "Do I get a good morning kiss, too, Princess?"  
  
"Pucker up, buttercup," Tony retorts, waggling a beckoning finger.

And because neither Tony nor Clint is about to back down, Clint swaggers over and Tony grabs him and tries to fold him into a dip. He loses his balance, and nearly sends both of them toppling. Sam's girls shriek with laughter. Clint manages to keep them upright and he says, “Whoa, buy me dinner first,” but leans in when Tony stubbornly keeps coming for the kiss.

Tony's dropping back on his heels, Clint saying entirely too casually, “Steve's right, you taste like shit,” when Darcy and Natasha come through the door.

“He didn't say I taste like shit, he said I taste like stale coffee and liquor,” Tony says, probably aiming for prim, but the words smear around a yawn. “Big difference. Unless you're getting your coffee at Starbucks, I guess, then, yeah, it's probably both.”

Darcy stops in her tracks, throws up her hands and says, “ _Whoa._ Hang on a second, did Clint finally talk you guys into the foursome?”

“Some of us are trying to eat,” Bruce points out.

“And there are _children_ present!” Jane says, aghast. Sam just laughs.

“Why did I marry you again?” Steve asks of the room at large, sighing.

“Because I'm the bee's knees,” Tony says, leaning against Steve's chest and batting his eyes up at him. It looks like he's cuddling up to be adorable, but he's heavy against Steve's arm. “The cat's pajamas. The—”

“Most obnoxious man on earth,” Natasha cuts in, rolling her eyes. “I don't know how any of us tolerate you. Let alone Steve, having to put up with you _constantly_.”

“I was serious about the foursome,” Darcy says through a mouthful of pancake.

Clint rolls his eyes and Steve has to smother a smile because he looks just like Natasha when he does that. “Tony and Steve don't want to have a foursome, Darce.”

Tony shrugs. “I'm down,” he says and starts dishing out chunks of everything onto a plate. His arm moves like each scoop weighs a hundred pounds.

“ _No,”_ Steve says firmly. “It's very flattering, but no.”

Darcy squints at him. “You don't have to participate. If you wanna watch—”

Steve feels himself go tomato red and Darcy crows with laughter. Steve has heard—seen— _participated in—_ so many things that are so much more vulgar, but the fact that after all this time, they still expect him to be embarrassed is enough. Clint grins lazily at him, too, and says, “Okay, okay, cut him some slack.”

“I can't help it!” Darcy howls. “His face! It's priceless! How sweet is he? Oh, my god, I'm dying.” She says, flapping her hand at her face. She's so amused she's got tears in her eyes.

Behind her, Steve's gratified to see Adla offering Peter a plate and getting a much less hostile reaction than he or Tony have been able to garner. Peter's made a few poor decisions, but he's still their good kid. It's a relief to see that hasn't been completely lost. When the girls hop up on the end of his bed, Peter's smile is weary, but genuine.

So for a little while, the fear takes a back seat.

Tony sits close to Steve, eating like each bite is a monumental effort, his thigh a warm, steady anchor against Steve's. At one point Clint and Thor are telling a largely exaggerated story to anyone who will listen and Tony leans into his side to murmurs just below his ear, “I love you, you know. Missed you like hell.”

Steve feels the warmth of the words all the way to his toes, but he shrugs and turns his head to whisper back, “I know.”

Tony's eyes jump up to his face in surprise. “You're going to leave me hanging?”

Steve pretends to think about it.

“Oh, what an _asshole,”_ Tony says and Steve laughs. He presses a kiss to Tony's mouth and doesn't pull back until Tony's hands have gone slack, the scant remaining contents of his plate sliding to the floor.

“I don't have to tell you, Tony,” he murmurs. “You know I love you.”

Tony's eyes drop and he draws the plate up horizontal again, shuffling it in his hands. He gets like this, probably half the time, maybe a little more often, when Steve says the words. Suddenly shy and uncertain. Steve nudges his shoulder with his own and when he looks up, repeats, “I love you.”

Tony's mouth twitches, creeps into a small smile. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, I know.” They look at each other for a long moment before Tony's gaze finally shifts away, toward the glass wall separating them from Peter. All of the happiness drains from his face and he looks older, fiercer.

“He did this to himself, Steve. He didn’t think he was good enough and he went out and did this to himself. What the hell does that say about our parenting?”

Steve's eyes drop to his hands. “I don't know,” he murmurs.

“Hey,” Sam says, voice severe, and they both start and look up in surprise. “Don't go blaming yourself for whatever dumb thing it is Peter's done. You're doing your best and that's all anybody can ask of you, you hear me?”

“Hear?” Tony says. “Sure. Believe?” He shakes his head; _not so much._

“Don't you know by now that I'm right about everything?” Sam chastises.

Steve huffs. “We're not that smart.”

“Hey, if admitting Wilson is right all the time is being smart, then I don't wanna be smart,” Tony says.

“Don't worry, you're not,” Jane says and smiles sweetly at the sarcastic twist of Tony's face. Thor grins dopily at her and reaches for their plates.

“If you are finished?”

“Yeah, thanks, Thor,” Steve says, taking Tony's and handing them both over. His eyes are getting gritty, which is no wonder, it's almost noon. It's been a hell of a day.

“You two need to get some sleep,” Bruce says and Steve pulls his hands away from his eyes, guilty at being caught out.

“I'm fine.”

He gets half a dozen incredulous looks for that.

“Okay, I know the serum makes you kinda super,” Darcy says, “but you are dragging hardcore, Steve. Thirty is a lot for anybody.”

“Peter needs us,” Steve protests.

“There are plenty of other people to look out for him right now,” Sam counters. “Nobody here is gonna let anything happen to your kid if you go catch some shut-eye.”

Steve knows that he's right and hates it. He's always hated the waiting. It feels wrong to go about his life when someone he loves is in Medical.

“Running yourselves into the ground isn't going to do any good,” Bruce says. “A few hours, that's all I'm asking. You don't even have to go together if it makes you feel better.”

Steve looks to Tony to see what he'll say and feels Tony's fingers tighten around his.

“No, we'll go. Together.”

“You'll come and get us if something changes?” Steve says and Bruce nods, says fervently, “Of course.”

Steve relents. They thank everyone for coming and Steve spends a few minutes with the girls draped around his neck and shoulders. Most of his attention is on Peter, but he tries to focus on their chatter. He does love them and he doesn't get as much time as he'd like to see them. Adla pulls him into another hug and then they say their see-you-laters and head out.

Steve turns back at the door to the lab, peering through the glass to Peter, pale and slack against the stark white sheets of the bed. He stares for a long moment, his hands curled into fists, and Tony reaches for his hand, brushing his fingers over the ridges of Steve's knuckles. Steve's hand opens on reflex and he pulls his eyes away as Tony slots their fingers together. Tony rubs his free hand over one eye and says, “We don't have to sleep. We could...we could go to the bad. The lab. I can pull up a feed and we can—”

Steve sighs and curves a hand around his neck. “Tony, you look ready to drop,” he says quietly. “Have you even sobered up?”

Tony shrugs, rubbing the jersey fabric of Steve's t-shirt between his fingers. “Ah—that's...debatable. It's kinda hard to tell right now, 'cause everything's a little unstable, a little whirly-gig-like, and that could be literal or y'know, alcohol-related, or exhaustion because, god, I'm tired. That was a hell of an adrenaline crash. I _feel_ like I'm gonna drop.” He lets his head fall against Steve's chest. Steve strokes the base of his skull and Tony very nearly zonks out on him right there.

“Been a rough coupla days, huh?” Steve murmurs and Tony snorts. Steve kisses his forehead. “Come on, let's get you upstairs.”

They walk to the elevator in silence, where Tony leans back against the rear wall and lets his head fall back against it with a sigh. “What a nightmare,” he mutters. Steve feels like he hasn't seen him in an age, despite almost literally spending the entire night on the line together. But it's different, having him here, warm and alive, scruff creeping down the length of his neck, his shoulders low and loose, and he wants to feel it, hold onto it with both hands.

Tony's eyes flutter back open when Steve steps into his personal space, hands reaching up to cup his jaw. Steve wants— _needs_ to be close to him. He leans his body into Tony's and that's enough to make Tony's breath catch.

They kiss, Steve's hands skimming down Tony's chest, and he sags a little more into the wall, mouth opening easily. “Hi, there, soldier,” he breathes, tilting his head back, eyes at half-mast.

It's not even a particularly sultry look, but Steve's _missed_ him and he's been on edge for so long. His body leaps the hurdle from smoldering interest to arousal in a single bound. Tony makes a bright noise of shock when Steve slots a thigh between his legs. “Hi.”

“Shit, Steve,” he breathes, hands clenching around Steve's shirt. “I dunno if I'm up for this. I really, _really_ wanna be, but—”

“I'll do all the work,” Steve says and kisses him again and again. “Is that— Can we?”

Tony stares up at him, eyes darkening a little at a time. He croaks, “If I fall asleep in the middle, you can't hold it against me.”

Steve laughs, a low, husky sound that makes Tony's eyes go that much darker. “Square deal.” He tugs Tony's shirt free of his slacks, and slips his hands up underneath once that's done. He spreads his fingers out over Tony's ribs, sending tremors racing over Tony's skin in every direction and he moans softly. “I've missed you. Missed this.” The feel of Tony's body heaving under his.

When Tony arches a little into Steve's hands, a zing of electricity plummets straight to his groin. He presses Tony back, using his weight to pin him.

“God, Steve,” he keens, voice high and needy, “ _god_ , how long has it been?”

“Too long,” Steve breathes into the fluttering skin over his pulse.

They stumble out of the elevator when the doors open and Steve wastes no time divesting Tony of his clothes. He peels off his shirt and tosses it aside, sucking at Tony's earlobe when he tries to reciprocate. It's a sufficient distraction and gives Steve an opening to unfasten Tony's pants. Tony almost trips on them, but Steve is quick enough to catch him and then they're close enough that he just propels Tony onto the bed.

There, Steve pauses, taking a minute simply to look as the shutters creep to the floor, shutting out the dreary day. His eyes glitter as the bars of light slide over his naked chest, streaks of color high on his cheeks.

Tony reaches for him, and Steve sinks down into his arms. Open-mouthed kisses stretch over long minutes, and Steve splays his legs, grinding against Tony's thigh until he can't quite catch his breath. Tony's left a wet spot on the front of Steve's slacks. His hands are everywhere—Steve's shoulders, neck, curving around his ass. He's kneading at that muscle, Steve panting into his neck, when he snakes a hand between them to grasp himself and reminds Steve of his goal.

Steve's own erection is fitted uncomfortably into the crease of his leg, still trapped inside his slacks, but he ignores it, moving down the bed to slide Tony into his mouth. Tony's breath quickens, and his fingers grasp handfuls of their sheets, his hips rocking in a counter-rhythm to the motion of Steve's mouth. “Oh, fuck, Steve, that's so good,” he moans, voice breaking a little.

It normally takes more time to get him worked up to this point, but it's been almost a month since the last time they had sex. Getting him turned on was the hard part. The rest is easy.

“Steve,” he gasps and Steve strokes his thigh, leaves his hand resting around the curve of his leg. It's starting to shake. “ _Steve!”_

His hips stutter, and Steve sucks him through it, taking in his fluttering eyelashes and hanging open mouth as best he can from this angle. When it subsides, Steve pulls away, wipes the corner of his mouth, and then crawls up to lay alongside Tony, kissing his forehead, cheeks, and nose as his breathing evens out. His eyes flutter again, but when they open, they're hardly slits.

“Steve,” he slurs, “L'mme...” He's asleep in the next breath.

Steve smiles, sweat cooling on his skin and shucks out of his pants, but doesn't bother with anything else. His erection is already subsiding and he's tired enough he slips under just a few moments after his head hits the pillow, arms wrapped tight around Tony.

They sleep like the dead.

“...sir; Sir!”

Steve shoots upright, registering peripherally Tony waking with a whaling gasp, arms and legs flailing. He twists, eyes darting around the room. Steve scrubs at his face.

“JARVIS?” he rasps.

“Sirs, Doctors Banner have requested your presence downstairs.”

Steve's heart crawls into his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Graphic sexual content.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UGH, OKAY, I'm really, really sorry about the delay! This week and this chapter just gave me all kinds of sass. I'm hopeful that next week's chapter will be on time. Thanks for your patience, enjoy!
> 
> No warnings for this chapter.

Tony shoves his way past Sam and Thor and a woman in a trailing gown, all of whom are standing uncertainly at the door into Peter's room, his palms slamming against the glass door hard enough to sting. It's past midnight.

He and Steve slept for almost ten hours. It's an absurd amount and he can't believe the others let them sleep so long.

Betty is standing next to the bed, and Peter—

Peter lets out a sob-like noise that makes Tony's chest tighten like a wrung-out rag. He reaches the foot of the bed and stops short, not knowing what to do.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Tony asks, and flinches when Peter chokes on a cry of pain. His back snaps into a rigid line, fingers white-knuckling in the blankets. Beside Tony, Steve lurches forward a step.

“Cramps,” Betty replies tersely. “I'm not entirely sure why, but the radiation has gone up another ten rad. That may have something to do with it, I just don't know. His body is still producing white blood cells at an astronomical rate so he's fighting, but white blood cells aren't really meant to fight radiation _._ ”

Peter whimpers and Betty lays her hand on his head, shushing him. “I know, I'm sorry, honey. I've set up an IV with electrolytes and fluids, hopefully that will get you some relief.”

“Cramps, you said?” Steve asks, his voice rough from sleep and stress.

Betty nods.

“Can we...” He reaches for Peter.

“Yes, of course,” Betty says. “I've done all I can do for now, I'll be in the lab if you need me.”

Steve barely acknowledges the rest, moving to the bed. "Take my hand, Peter. Come on," he coaxes and with what appears to be Herculean effort, Peter pries his fingers open and clamps them around Steve's, moaning. "I'm going to touch your leg now, all right, pal?"

"No, no, no," Peter begs. He grunts, jerking his hand in Steve's as his expression contorts in agony. "It hurts, it hurts."

"I know it does, but this is the best thing for it, I promise.”

Peter whimpers, but he nods, and Steve reaches one ginger hand to cover the muscle of Peter's calf.

He turns his face into the blankets and screams.

Steve doesn't let up, but the strain of causing Peter more torment digs haggard lines into his face. Tony watches helplessly.

"What do you need?" Sam asks from behind Tony.

“What are you still doing here?”

Sam's mouth quirks. He claps Tony's shoulder and squeezes. “I said I'd look after him, didn't I? The girls went home because they have school tomorrow, but I stuck around to help out.”

"Heat packs," Steve says. "As many as you can find. I know it's hard, but try to breathe, Peter," he adds.

Tony catches him by the wrist. "Give me something to do. There has to be something I can do."

"Come here," Steve says, waving him around, "up on the bed. Give him something to hold on to."

Peter's curled up on one side of the bed, so it's easy for Tony to scoot onto it next to him.

"Careful where you touch," Steve advises, and then moves away to gather supplies with Sam

Tony swallows hard and watches Peter's back rise and fall shallowly as he pants, shoulders rigid. Cautiously, Tony lays a hand on his head, ready to snatch it back if Peter gives any indication he's making things worse.

"Dad?" he says, his voice high and plaintive. "Make it stop, Dad, please.”

"We're gonna do our damndest, Bambi."Peter nods and then with an agonized noise, manages to turn himself over, reaching to curl his arm around Tony's waist.

Steve returns with Sam a few minutes later, laden down with heat packs. Thor and the woman in the dress are trailing behind them. Tony realizes the dress is Asgardian; Healer Eir, of course—he recognizes her now. She stops not far from the bed and waves her hands. A field of glowing pinpricks springs up between them. Steve lays the heat packs in the chairs and says, "Peter, where are you cramping right now?"

"Right leg, lower half, left, top half. M-my right hand." He catches a hitching breath between his shoulder and Tony's thigh, the fingers of his left hand clamping down around Tony's arm. Tony is sitting with Peter sprawled across his legs, his face buried against Tony's hip.

Steve activates the heat packs with a few quick twists of his wrists and settles them over the parts of Peter's legs where he can see the lump of tightened muscles. Then he sits down next to the bed and reaches for Peter's hand. “The best thing I know for cramps like this is firm, steady pressure. It hurts like hell, but it seems like the quickest way to get the muscle to unwind.”

Peter groans. “Just do it, Dad.”

Steve nods, steeling himself, and then presses his thumbs into the hard mass of the heel of Peter's hand. Peter jerks and yells, “OW, f—ohmy _god_ , ow ow ow ow.” Tears quickly creep into his voice.

Tony doesn't flinch, just bows forward, a ginger hand settling on Peter's back as he murmurs, "I know, buddy, I know," his voice strangled into hoarseness.

Pressing his lips together, Steve keeps working the knot under his fingertips. Peter chokes and tries to bite back more pained sounds, but can't quite smother them unless he buries his face against Tony's hip and that only lasts until he has to breathe again.

Tony feels every shuddering breath echo through his own lungs in time with Peter's. Steve catches his eye, but only briefly, and Tony can't say for sure who breaks first.

"That's it," he murmurs, hand gently rubbing up and down Peter's back, ruffling and smoothing the cotton of his shirt. "Just keep breathing. Bruce swears by it and if anyone would know if it helps, he would." Tony sucks air in noisily through his nose, then blows it back out slowly through pursed lips. Steve follows along, though Tony's not sure he realizes he's doing it, and eventually Peter is able to mostly match them. It's still unsteady and his nose is obviously clogged with snot and tears, so he has to sniff occasionally between breaths, but he's doing his damnedest to keep up.

After a few minutes of this, Steve sets Peter's hand back down on the bed and moves to where he can draw Peter's leg up into his lap. The cramp hasn't completely dissipated, but it's not the only one and maybe he'll have better luck on a bigger muscle.

The rhythm of their shared breathing is broken by the hiss of pain and a whimper, and Peter brings his newly freed hand up to cover his eyes, though it still looks stiff with pain. Tony feels like someone has grabbed his heart and given a solid yank as a tear trails down Peter's cheek from under his hand. He sniffs deeply, then tries to find the rhythm of the breaths again.

"In with me," Tony says, and inhales deeply. "Out with me. You're doing great, kiddo."

Steve lightly, but firmly, wraps his fingers around Peter's knee and ankle and slowly pulls on the limb to extend it. "Oh ow! Dad! Stop! That _hurts_ ," Peter pleads, voice cracking. He scrabbles to get a grip on Steve's fingers and tries to pry them loose.

"Tony," Steve says, evenly, but at great cost.

"Shit. Okay. Come on, Pete, lay back for me," Tony coaches, hands on Peter's shoulders.

"No," Peter says. "I don't want to. Please. That hurts more. Oh God, just let me— Owowowow! _STOP!_ " He jerks and pushes at Tony's hands and is able to escape, lurching forward and wrapping an arm around his thigh to pull it back in.

"Peter, we're trying to— I know, this seems backwards, I told your dad he was full of shit the first time he tried this on me, but I swear it will help. We just have to get the muscle extended so it can relax."

“I don't care!” Peter yells, voice cracking. “Just leave me alone!” He shoves at Tony, nearly elbowing him in the groin, but he's too weak and hampered too much by the pain he's in to move Tony significantly.

"Okay," Steve says, letting off the tug-of-war for a moment and Tony's head jerks up. _What?_

It takes a few moments for Peter's tightly closed eyelids to separate enough to show a sliver of red and brown, but Steve waits. In the meantime he rubs Peter's shoulder, small circles over the trembling joint.

"If you want us to go, we'll go," he says. Tony resists the urge to cling tighter to Peter in obstinate defiance.

“So go,” Peter mumbles miserably. “I deserve this, don't I?”

Steve folds his arms. “This isn't a punishment, Peter, it's a consequence. You're in pain, and neither of us want that. We can't do much about it, but we can stay here if you want, or we can leave you alone. It's up to you.”

When Peter doesn't reply, he sighs and makes a _come on_ gesture. “Tony—”

“No!” Peter blurts and his arms tighten around Tony's waist, his face pressing into his stomach. “Don't-don't leave me.” At least, that's what Tony thinks he says, his voice is muffled. Some of the strain eases out of Steve's expression.

“We'll stay as long as you want us, Peter.”

There's a growing wetness on Tony's shirt and it kills him. “God, Peter,” he whispers.

“Do you want us to work on the cramps?” Steve asks. “Or just to stay with you?”

“Just—you—I do-don't—” His chest heaves and Tony grits his teeth. “Do it,” Peter finally chokes. “Just—just do it.”

Steve shifts toward the bed again. "We can go as slow as you need to."

Peter's fingers sit next to Steve's on his leg, white all the way through the knuckle, but he doesn't stop. Even when he grits his teeth, the tears dripping from his cheeks and chin, and throws his head back on a strangled cry, he doesn't stop.

Tony's keeps one hand on the back of Peter's head, thumb ruffling the hair as it sweeps back and forth and the other on his shoulder, kneading as he steadies Peter's precariously balanced position.

"There we go. Don't forget to breathe, Peter," Tony reminds him, and Peter makes an aborted sound of complaint at that, but obediently purses his lips to blow out his shaking breath. "Good," Tony says. "Good."

When his leg is fully extended, Peter says, "Okay. Now wha— Oh. _Oh_ ," and abruptly relaxes the limb across Steve's lap. "Wow," he says, sounding almost drugged with the relief. It's only one of his many aches, but it's obviously enough to momentarily overshadow the rest. Peter laughs and smiles lazily. "You weren't kidding about— _NGURK_!" He jackknifes up, hand wrapped around his ankle and then the most horrifying _wail_ of pain escapes his throat, a sound so harsh Tony can feel his own throat spasm in sympathy. "Ohgodohgodohgod," he repeats frantically, pitch rising with each repetition. He's also rocking in place and Tony's half afraid he's going to hurt his ankle the way he's squeezing it.

"What is it?" Tony demands and Peter can only make a broken sound as he pants, even his words lost to him.

"Foot cramp?" Steve asks, and Peter's head jerks tightly, sweat beading on his brow and flying free with the movement.

"Here," Steve says, "let me—" He doesn't do more than brush the skin before Peter's falling backwards onto Tony, back arching and hands retracting like birds' wings. His fingers clutch spasmodically at the air, bent into claws, but he doesn't seem to be reaching for anything specifically, just grasping in reflex as he writhes on the bed.

"What the hell!" Tony snarls, anxiety swelling and morphing into frustration. He gets his hands on Peter's biceps to steady him, but is unable to restrain him.

He looks like he's having a seizure, not the quiet zoned out thing of before, but a fresh new horror from the other end of the scale.

"Banner!" Thor bellows, sticking his head out the door and Tony had forgotten he was there, but now he's grateful for it as he adjusts his grip and cradles Peter against his chest, speaking softly but urgently to him. Steve is too busy helping hold Peter's legs, supporting Tony by keeping Peter from rolling off the bed as best he can.

Unlike the other seizure, Peter seems to still be with them mentally, but that's little comfort when all he can do is beg and plead with them to stop the pain.

"I'm here, Bambi," Tony says, "I'm right here. I've got you. I've got you."

Peter cries out and thrashes the other way, twisting into a position that cannot be comfortable, but that Peter can't seem to help either.

"Is it your back?" Tony asks. "Peter, is your back hurting you?"

Peter very nearly headbutts Tony in the chin as he nods, still writhing and twisting, but unable to escape the pain even for a moment.

"Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop," he sobs, face red with the exertion, veins in his neck and face standing out in vivid relief. "Dad," Peter pleads. "Dad, _make it stop_."

"We're trying," Tony promises, desperate to reassure him in spite of his own overwhelming helplessness. "We're trying. We called Betty and she'll figure this out. She's smart like that."

"I appreciate the compliment," Betty says, entering just in time to catch the words, going straight for the bed and catching Peter's hand in the air, "and I will do my best. Can you tell me specifically where it hurts, Peter?" She's glancing between the clock and Peter's face, her fingers following the motion of Peter's wrist without losing her grip as she takes a pulse.

"Everywhere," Peter whines. "It just hurts… everywhere." He chokes and gags and Tony curses, but Betty just turns and grabs one of the kidney-shaped basins and holds it out.

"Here," she says, and Tony grimaces, but gets it into position as Betty goes back to her examination. She's palpating Peter's arms, feeling all the way up to the shoulder on the left, then down to the wrist on the right. Peter occasionally makes a pained sound as he gags, but he doesn't actually throw anything up.

"Excuse me," Betty says with a flicker of a smile at Steve, working around him to repeat the series of squeezes up and back down Peter's legs. She steps back when she's done and frowns. "Keep doing what you're doing. I'll be back."

"Hold on," Tony says, stopping her at the door. "Can't you give him anything for the pain?"

Betty grimaces but shakes her head. She looks at Peter as she says, "I'm sorry. I don't want to risk interactions. As bad as this is, I'd hate to make it worse."

Steve pales and Peter obviously can't help the whimper at that and gags again before saying, "Please no. Oh God, no."

For his part, Tony is feeling more than a little nauseated at the idea of it getting worse. Whether that means fatally so or just more agonizing, he doesn't know and he doesn't really want to know. Either way, he agrees that waiting is better for now.

Peter is slowly starting to relax from the strained position of before, propped up against Tony's chest as he gasps for breath. What were fine tremors before are now visible trembles that race up and down his body at regular intervals. He still twitches a limb now and again, reflexively drawing it close before forcibly stopping the movement and gritting his teeth with the effort to straighten it back out. The result is that he's laid out on the bed, but he looks like he's being pulled that way by unseen forces.

Steve busies himself rearranging the heat packs that have been knocked askew, accepting a few from Thor that had been tossed to the ground. Tony keeps up the hug, rocking slightly, kissing Peter's head and repeating mindless reassurances.

Peter's eyes are closed as he breathes in and out, and when that begins to steady and smooth out, it's a noticeable change.

As is the blood leaching back into his hands where they'd been gripping Tony's forearms. Tony feels the tension drain out of himself in a rush when Peter goes totally limp, sucking in wet little gasps. He bends over him, sheltering, murmuring, "There you go, that's it, champ. God, you're a tough kid. Something else, you know that? Take after your dad.”

“I don't—ever wanna do that again,” Peter says in a quavering voice.

Tony's eyes grow wet and he squeezes him, pressing a rough kiss into his hair. “Hey, it's all right,” he says thickly, “I fix stuff, that's what I do. I can—I can figure something out, I'm sure I can.”

Peter takes a shaky, wet breath, head shifting against Tony's stomach where he's slid down to, his eyes obviously growing heavy. “No,” he breathes, “don't fix...wanna...”

Peter drops off to sleep, one hand dangling over the rise of Tony's thigh.

“Well, that was equable to the first or second level of hell,” Tony mutters and slumps back into the bed. God, he's tired. The adrenaline from the burst of panic when he first arrived is dwindling and as it goes it's sapping his strength.

Steve sighs and rubs his forehead, letting his arms hang into his lap. He looks exhausted and heartsick and Tony's own aching heart twinges for him.

When Steve has gathered himself, he turns and says, “Healer Eir. Thanks for coming.”

She nods her head at him. “Captain. I am glad to do what I can for you.” She touches his shoulder, eyes dropping to the floor. “Unfortunately, I fear it is not much.”

Tony's stomach lurches sharply toward his toes. “You can't help him.”

Eir's expression turns mournful. “I cannot. The forces at play in your boy's body... I'm sorry. I am afraid I would do more harm than good.”

“Fuck,” Tony breathes and clutches Peter a little tighter.

~

“What's a guy gotta do to get a cup of coffee and a hello around here?” Bucky drawls, swaggering into the lab. There's an almost palpable rise in the level of strain in the air the second he passes through the door. No wonder, after what Steve's said Peter did.

“Bucky!” Steve exclaims, sitting up away from Stark's hunched back.

“Hey, squirt.”

Phil steps inside after Bucky, and says, “Evening,” voice light and his expression bland. “I'm here for a pick-up.”

He's puffy around the eyes like he's just woken up and, based on the fact that it's nearing dawn, he probably has.

“He's all yours,” Tony grumbles, shifting upright more slowly. “It's not like he's doing us a hell of a lot of good.”

“Can we say hi to Peter?” Bucky asks, peering through the glass to their left.

“Sure you can,” Steve says.

“He might bite your head off, but have at it.” Tony waves a sardonic hand.

Bucky and Phil both cross to the door, saying hello to Betty on their way. “Knock knock,” Bucky says, tapping on the frame. Peter's eyes open, most of the way anyway, and Bucky quickly notes his immediately discernible symptoms: flushed, glassy-eyed, dark circles, bin next to the bed that smells faintly of vomit. It brings back memories of Steve looking much the same.

Peter eyes him with exasperation and rasps, “You don't have to _say_ knock-knock if you knock, Uncle Buck.”

“You know, back in _my_ day—”

Peter rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. “Yeah, yeah, I know, you respected your elders.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, in mock surprise. “Some of what I say does sink through that block head of yours.”

“Hi, Phil,” Peter says, rather than replying.

“Hello, Peter. You've single-handedly put the entire Avengers team on hold, I'm impressed.”

Bucky glances sideways at Phil; his expression is a gentle smile. There's no judgment, no castigation. And yet.

Peter looks a little like he's been slapped upside the head.

“I hope you feel better soon,” Phil says, dips his chin, and steps back out of the room.

“I've got some stuff to discuss with everyone, but I'll swing back in later,” Bucky says—not that it matters. Peter's not even paying attention anymore. He's sunken back in his pillows, eyes closed, arms wrapped tight around the stuffed duck that makes rounds. It's a worrying level of quiet from the kid.

“Take me to where you're holding him,” Phil is saying to Tony and Steve back in the lab. Bucky sidles up beside Natasha and gives a very low whistle.

“I think he just shook some sense into Pete with one sentence.”

Natasha smiles. “Phil has a way with words. Nice to have you back, Barnes.”

~

“Jane even gave him pancakes this morning. It's not our fault he didn't eat them,” Tony complains and taps the code into a holographic panel that appears next to the door. He's cranky because Peter's condition has been steadily worsening and there doesn't seem to be a goddamned thing they can do about it. He's up to eighty rad; when Bruce had suggested that they needed to start thinking about containment, Tony had shouted at him for fifteen minutes straight and driven him to the Hulk's playroom. He bitterly regrets it.

The door to the make-shift jail cell slides open to reveal Scabel sitting against the rear wall. He frowns at them. “I am extremely uncomfortable.”

Tony scowls back. “You could be a hell of a lot more uncomfortable. At least we didn't keep you taped to that chair.”

Coulson's eyebrows rise. “You taped him to a chair?”

Steve turns pink, but he squares his jaw and says, “He kept trying to approach Peter.”

“So you taped him to a chair?” Coulson repeats.

Steve's shoulders hunch. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“And you claim _I_ am the immoral one,” Scabel sneers, struggling to his feet.

Tony laughs, a violent punch of air. “You're kidding, right? You're going to sit here and compare him taping you to a chair for a few hours to knowingly experimenting on a minor? _Really?_ ”

“Is that not what you yourself did?” Scabel demands.

“What?” Tony very nearly screeches. “You're accusing _me_ of experimenting on a minor? Are you out of your goddamned mind?”

Scabel stalks forward, his glasses slipping down his nose, and one finger pointed in accusation at Tony. Steve edges forward, placing himself ever-so-slightly in front. “Yes, you. _Both_ of you. Where did Peter come from? How was he made? _Experimentation._ ”

Tony's mouth drops open in consternation. “You— That's not even _approaching_ the same realm. We were building off of already established scientific procedures—cell splicing, surrogacy, biomechanics—”

“ _As was I._ Gene therapy, the super soldier serum, the Hulk—”

Tony makes a noise of utter outrage. “I'm naming actual procedures, not just the goddamned one-offs!”

“I am standing on the shoulders of _giants!_ ” Scabel howls. “My research will do what they could not!”

“You're insane,” Steve says stiffly. “I'm no scientist, and I can see how poorly you conducted yourself. The circumstances of Peter's birth are _nothing_ like what you're trying to do. No one tried to _change_ what Peter was. They just—provided the right conditions.”

Tony, in another place, with less on the line, would be wildly turned on by Steve's display of understanding.

“I have done nothing wrong,” Scabel hisses. “I have found the pathway from _homo sapians sapians_ to _homo sapians superior_.”

The wave of _disbeliefangerfrustration_ that rolls through Tony makes it difficult to hear for a minute. How can one person be so _blind?_ He's trying to find the words to keep going when Coulson touches his shoulder, very lightly.

“I'll take it from here,” he says. “We need to begin processing.”

“Processing?” Tony echoes. He smiles. “Oh, yes, please.”

For the first time since his arrival, Scabel looks nervous and Tony's smile grows into a grin.

Coulson twirls a finger. “Turn please and provide your hands.”

“Where are you taking me?” Scabel asks. “This is a violation of my rights.”

Coulson smiles blandly. “Evidence of supervillainous activity waives your Miranda rights. Experimental genetic modification with the intent to create a super-human falls under the umbrella of supervillainous activity. Also, a paragraph waiving your rights in the event of future activity was written into the injunction filed when you left Stark Industries. Please turn.”

Scabel swallows and reluctantly turns his back. “It doesn't matter. When I am successful, you will see.”

“Bye bye,” Tony calls nastily as Coulson escorts him through the door. “See you never.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONLY TWO DAYS LATE THIS WEEK
> 
> I spent a long time fussing over this chapter, trying to make it have the appropriate amount of impact, I hope it pays off!
> 
> A gazillion thanks to my netbook's godmom and the author/artist of [A Semi-True Story](http://www.semitruestory.com/) for their invaluable help.
> 
> Check the warnings if you're squeamish.

It's just after 0700, the lights down low in deference to a _finally_ sleeping Peter. There are a couple of desk lamps on in the lab on the other side of the glass, plus a couple of monitors, and some colored blinky lights on the machinery around Peter's bed, but other than that, nothing.

Clint's about halfway through his watch, not that they've set up an official _watch,_ it just happens that every four hours or so, someone else comes in to see how Peter's doing and there's only two chairs, one of which is occupied by Steve 99.9% of the time.

Except now, that .1% where Steve's not trying to become one with the chair. Instead, Tony's the one holding it down. He's sitting turned to face the bed, flush up against the side, his legs tangled in the mess of supports and equipment underneath and his elbows propped on the mattress next to Peter's chest.

Peter himself is curled up on his side and Tony's got his fingers threaded through Peter's, their palms resting together. Tony's other hand is buried in his own hair, exhausted, shadowed eyes focused on Peter's face.

Clint hasn't seen him sit this still in—well, ever, probably, and it's taking a lot of effort to keep his eyes on the brightly colored Angry Birds app on his phone. Tony's not...Tony gets weird when people notice him being pretty much anything but snarky and in control, and he's dealing with a lot of shit with Peter being sick like he is, so Clint's trying to be considerate. As much as he knows how, anyway. Hence, Angry Birds and way more focus than a couple of obnoxious green pigs really merit. It helps that the physics in the game are a joke, which pisses Clint off because that's the kind of stuff he uses to do his job and not being able to aim a bunch of goddamn animated birds is embarrassing.

Seems to be working though, 'cause Tony's focus is on Peter instead of his game face.

It means Clint can see the raw fear, the floundering helplessness, and the way Tony's giant brain is working overtime trying to figure out how to solve this. Clint's not sure there is anything he _can_ do and that thought makes his stomach do a slow, sick roll.

Clint's eyes flick to Peter and then back to the pigs—laughing at him now, the little green bastards—and he swears at them. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Tony closing his eyes and drawing Peter's knuckles up to his mouth, whispering something Clint really doesn't want to hear because Tony's tortured expression says too much as it is.

The door to the lab opens with a quiet shifting of air and Clint drops his chair to all four legs, careful to catch it before it makes noise.

Steve slips inside and closes the door behind him silently. He nods at Clint and Clint nods back, goes back to his birds. He really does try not to pay attention as Steve crosses the room to Tony, who's straightened up, eased Peter's hand back down to the mattress, and pulled down his game face.

Clint hates that face a lot right now. His fucking kid is sick because some wannabe supervillain used him as a test dummy, he shouldn't feel like he has to cover up the fact that it's killing him slowly. Not from them. Not from _Steve._

“Hey,” Tony says, voice low, and leans into the touch when Steve cups his face.

“Hey,” Steve replies. His hand moves down to Tony's shoulder, thumb stroking a slow back and forth on his throat. “I went down and talked to Bruce.”

Clint freezes for a second involuntarily. The yelling match that had led to Bruce's retreat had been ugly and he really doesn't want to be here if Steve and Tony are gonna duke it out, too.

But Tony just says, “Oh?” and leans out of Steve's grip, eyes on the ground. Clint breathes out, long and slow and silent.

Steve's expression softens and saddens, but he nods. “He said the radiation is going up more slowly than in the rabbit trials and that seems like an encouraging sign.”

On the bed, Peter shifts and Clint realizes that he's awake. “Wha're you talking about?” Peter mumbles. “There'sn't any radiation in the rabbit trials.”

Steve's brow furrows. “That's not what Bruce said.”

Tony pulls around one of the displays. “You sure you're remembering right, Pete? There were sections on radiation in every trial.”

Peter glares at him, pretty killer for a kid who looks like you could blow him over with a whistle, and says, “Yeah, I'm sure. I'm not an idiot. If radioactivity had been a factor in any of the trials I'd have never said yes.” He pushes himself up, elbow wobbling precariously and starts swiping through the files on the display. “JARVIS, compare and contrast with my notes.”

“Certainly, sir,” JARVIS replies.

Instantly, a huge block of red text appears on one half of the screen.

Peter shoves his hair back out of his face, squinting at the displays. “No,” he says, gripping the edge with one hand, “this isn't— This can't be right.” But he scrolls further and the blocks of red just get bigger.

Clint rubs the bridge of his nose and then digs his fingers into the corners of his eyes. Fuck, it's awful watching Peter figure this shit out.

He looks shell-shocked, hands dropping away from the display. “He lied to me.”

Tony's lips curl into his mouth and Clint knows he's biting them to keep himself from saying _I told you so._

“But— But _why?_ ” Peter demands. “That doesn't— That doesn't make any sense, he didn't know I wanted to— I never told him! Not until I had seen the research!”

Clint can't help the noise he makes and all three of them look. A dull heat creeps up the back of his neck, but Clint says, “Pete, anyone with half a brain cell could pick out how much you want to be an Avenger, and if he had prior knowledge?—which I bet he did, seeing as he worked for your dad—he probably started grooming you for it from day one.”

“Oh my god,” Peter mumbles, and his hands thread into his hair, pulling at it. “Oh my god, I'm so _stupid_. I can't believe he _lied to me._ And I didn't... I'm so stupid!”

 _Welcome to the real world, kid_ , Clint thinks grimly. _Ain't it grand?_

~

Steve's knowledge about radiation is limited to what he knows about its effects on the human body, during the time he spent studying Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Chernobyl. He knows small amounts are used in a variety of daily-use items, though companies have been trying to work around even that minimum of exposure lately, and he knows that it's used medicinally in highly-controlled environments. Unfortunately, he also knows about radiation poisoning and radiation sickness and the slow, painful deaths so many people suffered.

What really scares him is that radiation sickness accounts for nearly all of Peter's symptoms.

But Bruce and Betty have promised that he's still safe at this level.

Steve sits down at one of the lab tables closest to the isolation room and sets up his tablet. He catches up with the news and grimaces at the stories being written about Tony's sudden exit from Australia and Peter's strange absence. Apparently his own change in schedule has been noted too and of course that's made the rumors fly thicker and faster. They're going to have to deal with it soon.

Bucky slides onto a stool across from him. “How're you holding up?”

Steve sighs and turns the tablet screen off with a swipe. “As well as can be expected, I guess.”

“All of the hysteria is internal, hm?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, I hate to do this to you, Steve, but that intel I mentioned? I don't think we can put it off much longer.”

Steve closes his eyes. “What did you find out?”

“They've mobilized. There's a timeline in the works and we're just waiting on our inside guy to get word of what it is. Fury's predicting boots on the ground in days.”

“Shit,” Steve says, with feeling.

~

"He's changing." Bruce sits back in the lab abruptly, staring unseeing over the microscope in front of him.  
  
"Yes, sir," JARVIS says quietly.  
  
Bruce pulls off his glasses and takes a shaky breath. "Shit," he whispers.  
  
"My sentiments exactly," JARVIS murmurs.  
  
"I don't understand why this is happening!" Bruce can hear the frustration in his own voice. "This isn't how radiation works," he insists, despite all the evidence he's seen to the contrary. He doesn't want it to work this way, because the idea of Peter suffering through what he's suffered through makes him physically ill.  
  
"It is bewildering," JARVIS agrees. "His cellular structures are changing at the most basic level."  
  
"And that's presumably what Scabel was going for, but Steve's transformation took mere minutes. It's been _days_ for Peter."  
  
"He was also dosed in a far different manner."  
  
"I know, I know," Bruce mutters.

~

Everything hurts.

Peter's sleeping all the time lately, and when he's not doing that, he _hurts._ If the pain just stayed the same, maybe he could get used to it; but it doesn't, and he can't. It's cotton in between his joints, it's a hot twisting sensation around his fingers, it's barbed wire bed sheets sticking against his skin.

Peter can't get Uncle Clint's words out of his head, even though he's having trouble making sense of them. It's like an echo chamber, repeating, _he probably started grooming you for it from day one_. Grooming. That's the word people use when they talk about child abuse victims. Peter was being groomed for it. He—

He wakes up confused, unsure of why he's in the MedBay. Doctor Scabel comes to mind, but the more he thinks, the more he feels. The muscles in his body twinge like hot strings curling around his bones and burn till he feels raw all over. He's still throwing up sometimes, guts twisting like a pit full of snakes.

Misery tangles with nausea in his guts. Nothing in his head makes sense, every thought dulled and obscured. He feels stupid. So, so stupid and he's not sure why. Something to do with how he's in MedBay, and he's sick, and everything hurts. It hurts so much and no one is making it stop. No one is stopping the pain, _why,_ when that's all Peter wants, he just wants for it to—

All the wires wrapped around all his bones twist, sharply, savagely, and if he could, Peter would sob, but he can't move enough even for that.

There's a deep bone crushing ache that makes his chest hurt with every breath.

Maybe his dads were right.

~

Dinner's coming up and all's quiet in the lab. Peter's zonked out after the latest bout of cramps and vomiting, and Clint thinks he might go hunt down Darcy and Natasha and let them know Peter's doing okay.

Not great; not _improving_ , but okay.

“ _Dads!”_

Peter's voice breaks through the lab, shrill and thready with panic and Clint startles, hand jumping to his good ear. Tony jerks and knocks over an entire row of test tubes plus his coffee, shattering a few of the tubes and spilling their contents across the lab table. He swears and reaches out like he's going to start cleaning up, but then Peter wails again, higher and more frantic, “ _Dad!”_

He spins away from the mess and darts through to Peter, calling, “I'm here! I'm here, Peter, what is it, what's wrong?”

Steve stumbles in through the lab door before Tony's even finished asking, his face white. He doesn't look around or hesitate as he makes his way across the lab to Peter's room. On the other side of the glass, Tony's hovering near the bed, clearly afraid to approach. He's trying to keep his voice steady and reassuring, but it's really not working. Clint's pretty impressed he's doing as well as he is, because Peter's clawed his way into a half-sitting position and he's holding his arms out, palms to the ceiling. He looks absolutely _terrified,_ and if that makes Clint want to tear the world apart to make it stop, he can't even imagine how Tony must feel.

Then Clint sees what Peter's showing them and fear skitters up his spine, hairs standing up on the back of his neck.

The skin on Peter's wrists has opened up just below the line of the heel of his palm, red and raw, and the wounds are seeping a thick white substance that's spotted with the brick red of clotted blood, the vivid red of fresh. Clint gags and throws his arm across his face, barely managing to choke back the urge to puke.

“I'm— I'm here, okay, Bambi? I'm _right here_ ,” Tony says and his voice cracks, but somehow the tears hold, hovering on the edge of his lashes. His hands are jittering around, never quite reaching the point of touching.

Steve slips past him, unhesitating, and he eases down on the bed next to Peter, who's slumped into the pillows on his side, unable to hold himself up any longer. Wet brown eyes slide over to look, tears rolling steadily down his cheeks and he twitches his arms toward Steve.

“Daddy, make it stop. Please, please, make it stop, _please_.”

_Shit._

Clint has to cover his mouth with his arm again to cover up the way his breath catches, his eyes pricking.

Shit shit, fuck, goddamn.

Tony looks like he's actually biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself in check, but somehow Steve just leans forward and presses a kiss to Peter's forehead, gingerly taking Peter's arms in his hands. They look so thin and fragile in contrast with Steve's broad palms and Clint presses his knuckles into his mouth until it hurts. “I would if I could, Peter.”

“Please, dad, _please,_ I'll come home right after school and I won't leave my bag in the kitchen and I'll never complain when you go out without dad, please, I'm so sorry.”

“Fuck,” Tony says, voice wobbling and he drops into a crouch, splaying his hands over his face as he chokes out a low, rough sound.

Steve swallows, his control wavering for a second, but he just draws Peter up against his chest and starts rocking him gently, holding him tight.

“Please, I don't want to die,” Peter chokes.

“You're not going to die,” Steve says, implacable. “You're going to get better.”

“I'm not,” Peter whimpers. “I did this. It's my fault. It's my fault, Daddy, I'm so sorry.”

Bruce joins them at the bed. He begins gingerly cleaning and wrapping the wounds, while Steve cups Peter's face, fingers stroking his hair, and murmurs reassurances.

Natasha moves to Tony's side and crouches down next to him, slipping one arm around his back and touching her forehead to his shoulder. Tony grabs for her hand and holds on, choking half-formed sobs into the crook of his own elbow.

~

Peter is hysterical; it takes Steve nearly a half an hour to get him calmed down. As much as Steve appreciates the support of their friends, he asks them to stay outside the room. They all linger in the lab, Thor pacing by the door like an agitated cat, brows deeply set in worry.

“This was a really bad idea,” Peter says a little later, when he's more lucid and Steve's heart clenches tight at the sight of tears welling up in his eyes. “I thought—I thought I was a _smart_ teenager. I don't get drunk or do drugs, I haven't knocked anybody up, but— I'm so stupid,” he chokes and then curls up, fists clenching.

“Oh, Peter,” Steve says.

“You're right,” Tony says, leaning forward, his arms crossed tight over his chest. “You're right, you're a dumb fucking teenager, but it was a full-grown adult who helped you do this to yourself and you had better believe you're in deep shit for this once this is all over, but it's not completely your fault either. You never should have been able to get this far.”

“You made a bad decision,” Steve says, “and you're paying for it.”

“That doesn't make _you_ bad though, okay? Do you get that? This was a stupid fucking thing to do and the wrong thing to do, but that doesn't make you bad, you know that?”

One of the machines starts making a repetitive beeping noise and Steve's head comes up, heart skipping.

“What is it, what’s that?” Tony demands and Steve shakes his head.

“I don’t know, is it the heart monitor?”

“No, not the heart; JARVIS, what the hell?”

“Whatever it is turn it off,” Peter grumbles, pressing his head down against Steve's thigh.

Bruce bursts through the door, hair a wild riot of messy curls. “Out, both of you, get out now.”

“What?” Tony says. “Why?”

“ _Now,_ Tony, get out or I’ll drag you.”

“You need to do as he says, sirs,” JARVIS says, urgently. “Go.”

Steve drags himself out of the bed, hyperaware of his skin as it slides away from Peter's. He can't breathe, fear slithering up his throat in slick tendrils. “Is Peter okay?”

“ _NOW_ ,” Bruce snarls, voice taking on the inexplicable bass of the Hulk.

“Dads?” Peter says, blinking after them in confusion and Steve’s breath catches. He bites his lip and hauls Tony out into the lab. Bruce is saying something to Peter about radiation and safety and precautions. Steve's lungs draw up tight in his chest, forcing all the air out and pulling the blood from his head. Dangerous levels of radiation, oh god. He feels woozy. Tony tries to fight his way free and Steve lets him go, pressing his hands down over his own face.

When Bruce exits, closing the door behind him, Steve demands, voice shaking, “What the hell is going on?”

Bruce blocks the door with his body, glowering at Tony when he makes like he's going to go back inside.

"Bruce, what the hell—"

"He's radioactive, Tony."

"Uh, yeah, we _knew_ that, Bruce. Get out of my way."

" _No_ , Tony," Bruce grits, grabbing hold of his arm and yanking him back. "You're not listening to me. That alarm was made to go off when radiation levels reached unsafe amounts. He's _actively_ radioactive now. Going in there means radiation poisoning."

Something inside Steve shatters and his legs wobble. He sinks onto the nearest stool, vivid images of bloodied, blistering skin rising to the front of his thoughts. His stomach lurches.

Tony's mouth works, opening and closing in absolute consternation. He shakes his head. "What? No. That's—that's impossible."

"Because any of what we've been dealing with has been possible?" Bruce shoots back at him. "We don't get to decide what's possible, Tony. I'm _telling_ you, Peter is dangerously radioactive."

"No!" Tony snaps, pulling at his arm. "No, that's not—the readings are wrong. Something's wrong with the machinery—"

"There is nothing wrong with the Geiger counter, sir," JARVIS says apologetically. "Peter is projecting radioactive matter into the atmosphere around him up to a foot away from his body. According to the Radiological Contamination Protocols, the isolation room is now in containment lockdown. Only personnel in proper protective gear will be allowed in and all personnel will be limited in their access to prevent harm.” JARVIS pauses. Steve knows he isn't imagining the sorrowful tone when he continues, softly, “I'm sorry, sir. You must stay out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Description of hypothetical radiation poisoning victim, discussion of manipulation of a minor, mention of and comparison to child abuse, descriptions of severe pain, body horror including graphic descriptions of wounds.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Down to one day late!!

“JARVIS, we don't need supervision for level one, frost the glass,” Tony instructs as the door closes behind them and it fogs over instantly.

Bruce is making them shower in the decontamination chamber along the far left wall of Peter's room. It's got three sealable chambers including the shower room and is the only entrance and exit while the room is under quarantine. Bruce is already inside examining Peter and had sworn he would have JARVIS lock them out all together if they didn't scrub down and wait for him to determine what precautions were necessary.

Steve takes a shaky breath and there's no physical cause, he knows there isn't, but he feels lightheaded. He presses both palms to the cool steel wall and puts his head down, trying to breathe through the fear tightening his chest. This isn't over and he needs to keep it together.

“Why the hell can he be in there and we can't?” Tony demands, prowling back and forth close to the second airlock door. Every surface in here is steel, unforgiving and unfeeling.

“Even if Peter gives him radiation poisoning the Hulk can take care of it,” Steve says quietly.

“JARVIS said it was only going into the atmosphere a foot around him, that leaves plenty of the goddamn room for us to occupy without getting irradiated. This is idiotic, I'm going in there—”

“Tony, don't be stupid,” Steve says, and his hands clench into fists against the wall. “Just let Bruce finish before you throw yourself on a grenade, will you? I'm not interested in sitting at the bedsides of my entire family.”

Tony makes a frustrated noise.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut, head drooping even further. Dammit. He needs to— He needs to get washed up, so he's ready when...

He tenses at the touch of Tony's hand, running up his arm. “Hey,” Tony says, voice low. Steve reluctantly lifts his head to meet his eyes, and feels his forehead crumple when Tony leans in to touch it with his own.

“He's going to be fine,” Steve tells the space between them. Because it has to be true.

“Sure,” Tony says. “Sure he will.”

Steve shifts and Tony moves with him, pressing his eyes into Steve's neck, eyelashes like air brushing across his skin. Steve brings one hand up to cup the back of Tony's neck, letting himself seek and accept the comfort of that, even though it's not nearly enough to cover the wound the fear has sliced open inside him.

He almost doesn't hear Tony ask, “Was I too hard on him?”

“No.” Steve shakes his head, cheek ruffling the hair at Tony's temple. “You said what needed to be said.”

“Shouldn't have sworn,” Tony mumbles.

“Maybe,” Steve concedes, because he won't lie to him. Especially not where Peter's concerned. “We should get cleaned up before Bruce realizes we're still in here,” he says. Tony huffs, short and humorless, and nods.

“Right.”

They strip out of their clothes and feed them into the disposal chute. The soap Tony stocks is slightly better-smelling and slightly less abrasive than the usual provided soap, but by the time they finish aggressively scrubbing every inch of their bodies, they're both pink and verging on raw.

Radiation protocols are separated into three levels of exposure severity. Peter can't be all that bad or they'd be dealing with at least a level two wash-up, if not the extensive—and invasive—level three.

Air dryers activate after the showers go off, and once they're dry a little cubby hole opens in the wall next to the door back to the lab. There are stacks of dark blue scrubs and paired socks. Tony fishes out a pair of each in the right sizes.

When they're dressed, Tony knocks on the glass of the door with a knuckle. “All right, J. Scan us and let us out.”

“Scanning,” JARVIS replies. After a beat, he adds, “Minimal traces of radiation detected. You are free to go.”

It's bright in the lab after the single row of fluorescent light in the decontamination chamber. Both he and Tony veer to the right, wanting to at least _see_ Peter if they can't be with him.

Bucky's sitting at the far lab table.

He stands, crossing his arms over his chest, and the metal arm glints. “Steve,” he says quietly, “we gotta talk.”

~

Twenty minutes later, Bucky mutters, “Look, I know the timing's shit, and I wish to God we didn't have to ask you to do this, but Andrasko refuses to give information to anyone but you. If we don't get that info—”

“We know!” Tony snaps.

Steve scrubs his hands over his face. “Can you give us a minute?”

Bucky eyes them both, and then nods. “Yeah. Sure.”

Natasha puts her hand on his arm and guides him out. The minute the door shushes closed behind them, Tony spins on his heel, holding one finger up and Steve knows he's about to get an ear-full. It still never fails to amaze him how much attitude Tony can pack in to the simplest gestures. “No. No, _absolutely not_ , it ain't happening. And furthermore, _fuck no,”_ Tony says, his eyes fever-bright, his lip trembling slightly.

Steve sighs. Normally he'd bristle at Tony's dramatic BS, but he's exhausted. He's _worn out_ and heartsick and Tony's theatrics are too much to deal with, even if he understands why Tony's doing it. It's not like he _wants_ to leave.

Steve considers fighting him for a brief moment and decides what little energy he has is better spent. “Fine,” he says. “I'll let Fury know. Do what you want.”

Tony's jaw is already firmed with a snippy retort, but that makes him falter. His jaw goes loose, his indignantly-pointed finger sinking. “Um,” he says, uncertain. He rubs the pads of his fingers together and shifts his weight. “...really? That's it?”

Steve shrugs; it's a half-hearted gesture. “I'm not going to make you do anything, Tony.”

Tony snorts. “Since when?”

That's fair, but Steve just tells him, “I have to go. If we don't get Andrasko's help, thousands of people are going to die.”

“Wait,” Tony says and Steve hears him start forward. “Hang on.”

“What, Tony?” Steve asks wearily, pressing his thumb and his index finger into the corners of his eyes. The sound of Tony's footsteps stop and Steve can feel him hesitate before he feels Tony's fingers curling around the inside of his elbow.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Steve. I'm sorry.”

Steve presses harder, a sharp, hot burning starting at the backs of his eyes. He presses until it hurts and he just wants Tony to shut up, he has somewhere he has to _be._ He doesn't want to talk, he just wants to get out and do. Why can't Tony just _shut up?_

But he doesn't; Tony never does. “I shouldn't be taking this out on you, he's your kid, too.”

A breath catches slightly on its way out of Steve's chest despite his best efforts and Tony goes very still behind him.

“...Steve?”

“I'm fine,” he replies tersely and pulls his hand away from his eyes. “I have to go,” he repeats, and ignores the way it feels like he's swallowed broken glass.

“Like hell you are,” Tony says and grips his arm harder, tugging insistently. “This is fucking with you as much as it is me.”

“ _Tony_ ,” Steve says and he can't stop how sharp it sounds. “If you don't want to go that's fine, but I need to.”

“Then go!” Tony tells him. “You and I both know I can't stop you! If you have to go, then go!”

But Steve doesn't. His chest is rising and falling visibly with every breath; dammit, there are people waiting on him, _counting_ on him, but he lets Tony pull him back around this time when he tugs. Tony's hands move up his shoulders to his neck, his fingers threading into the hair at the nape of Steve's neck and Steve takes one sharp, faltering breath, letting his head drop onto Tony's shoulder. His arms move around Tony, holding on, and Tony's hands tighten around the back of his neck in response. The heat of his palms makes something sharp and hard inside Steve melt away. He breathes in the familiar smell of metal and grease and something else he's never been able to place—and presses his face into Tony's neck, feels his pulse against the bridge of his nose, the heat of his skin on his cheeks.

Why is this happening to them? Haven't they been through enough?

“I'm sorry,” Tony says again after a beat.

“No.” Steve shakes his head. “Not for this. Not when it's because Peter—”

“Yeah, I know,” Tony mutters, “but I shouldn't take it out on you. You're my rock, right? I mean, come on, we were naked and I didn't perv at all. I didn't even _look,_ Steve.”

Steve breathes out a laugh and runs his hand down Tony's back, surprised by how much comfort the feel of the familiar muscles against his palm alone provides. “Now I've seen everything.”

“Ha ha,” Tony mutters, his breath sinking through Steve's shirt, warm and damp against his skin.

Steve tucks his nose under the line of Tony's jaw and says quietly, “I know Bruce and Betty are doing their best. But I'm scared, Tony. Terrified. What if they can't—” His voice catches in his throat, closing up around the words, and he feels Tony swallow hard, his fingers tightening.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice rough. “Yeah, I've uh,” he clears his throat. “I've been thinking about that a lot. I don't think I could— If—“ He breathes out sharply into Steve's shoulder and shakes his head. “Fuck, Steve, I've never been so scared in my life. If he— Fuck. _Fuck.”_

Yeah. Steve knows.

He holds on for another minute and then reluctantly starts to draw back. “I have to... I need to go, Tony.”

Tony stares down between their bodies, nodding. “Yeah. I know you do.” His eyes skate around the edges of the room. “I should go with you—”

Steve shakes his head and sighs, curling his hand around Tony's neck. “No. We don't need you—”

“You always need me,” Tony mutters and the corner of Steve's mouth pulls up.

“—and I think it will make both of us feel better if you're here with Peter.”

Tony looks up at him. “You're sure?”

Steve nods.

“Okay,” Tony says and squeezes his arm. “So you've got what, four hours? What are you going to do?”

~

“This isn't a good idea,” Bruce says for what feels like the zillionth time, and Tony rolls his eyes. Steve's wearing his Captain face; there's no way in hell he's going to be talked out of this.

“I understand,” Steve says. “And I'm not leaving without going in there.”

Bruce sighs, pushing his glasses up on his forehead so he can rub at the corners of his eyes. “Okay, fine. I assume you're going to insist on touch, so you're only going to have an hour. After that you'll need to do a supervised level three wash and you'll have to stay in one of the isolation rooms for another hour. You cope well, Steve, but you're not immune to radiation poisoning, so—”

“I understand,” Steve repeats, and Tony's mouth pulls up at the corner. It's great to watch him get all mule-stubborn on basically anyone but Tony himself.

“Okay,” Bruce says, finally giving up hope of talking sense into him. “Go ahead.”

Tony fidgets near the glass wall as Steve enters the decontamination chamber. He wants _so badly_ to go in with him, but Bruce won't even discuss it. Says his heart can't handle the strain, that the repeated exposure from high-altitude flying in the suit has already upped his threshold. He's only allowed in if he puts on a suit.

For now, Tony's letting it lie, because Steve will be in there and it's only going to freak Peter out if he goes in there in a suit. He'll let Steve have his one-on-one time with Peter and focus on fixing the problem for awhile.

He can do this.

~

Time goes by too fast.

Steve feels like he's only just drawn Peter up against his side, and already half of his time is gone. He runs his fingers through Peter's hair and kisses his forehead when he turns into the touch. “I love you, Peter,” he murmurs, for probably the hundredth time, but he's afraid Peter won't hear, that he'll leave and Peter will think he's abandoned him, still angry. “You did the wrong thing, but you're not bad. I love you so much.”

Peter mumbles something incomprehensible and turns his face into Steve's shoulder. His skin seems redder and Steve traces the curve of his skull with his fingertips as lightly as he can. What if it hurts him? God, what if he's—

He cuts off that thought before it can fully form. Peter will be okay. He's tenacious like Tony, pushing inexorably forward for what he wants.

They really should have known better. Peter's passions have always been close to obsessions, again, just like Tony's.

Steve stares at the dark lavender circles of the delicate skin under Peter's eyes, at the tiny blue veins beneath. He takes a shaky breath and touches the backs of his fingers to Peter's slack cheek. His skin feels so soft and so thin, the same way Steve's mother's had before she...

Aware that Tony and Bruce, and probably Thor, are out in the lab, maybe looking through the glass, Steve rolls his eyes toward the ceiling when they start to burn, turns his face toward the wall. He takes deep, shuddering breaths, and fights back the urge to gather Peter up and cry. Peter is still alive, and he won't write him off like that.

A few determined gulps of air and gritted teeth push back the tears. “I'm sorry we didn't listen,” he says, voice rasping. “I'm so sorry, Peter. If we'd listened and been there for you—” He swallows thickly. “We'll...we'll talk to Natasha and Clint and Phil. You can learn archery or—hand-to-hand. I could— I could teach you, if you wanted. I don't know if we'd be okay with letting you come out with us, but you could at least get started training and then when you're old enough...”

Steve pulls Peter closer and curls his hand around one of his thin wrists, taking comfort in the pulse beating against his fingers.

The hollow _klong klong_ of knuckles against the glass gets his attention. “Steve,” Bruce says, voice tinny through the intercom. “It's time.”

Steve squeezes his eyes shut. _Come on, Rogers_ , he tells himself. Y _ou have to do this. People's lives are at risk. You don't even know that Peter's in danger_.

It's agony pulling himself away, but he does it.

Carefully, he eases Peter back into the pillows, thumb stroking his cheek. He tucks Mister Waddles into the crook of his arm and then pulls up the blankets, tucking them in around Peter's shoulders the way he used to. There's a long moment where he lingers, bent over the bed, smoothing back Peter's unruly hair. Someone knocks on the glass again. He hates them a little.

“I love you,” he repeats, and kisses Peter's forehead.

Then, with a glare spared for Bruce, he crosses to the decontamination chamber and seals himself in.

It's much worse this time around.

Bruce meets him in the first chamber wearing one of the suits that remind Steve of tin foil and waits while he strips. His clothes are immediately discarded. If Steve's sense of modesty hadn't been all but stamped out in the thirties, he still wouldn't be embarrassed to be naked in front of Bruce. It's really only fair.

Having to pee naked in front of him is a little awkward, though.

Bruce swabs each of his nostrils and then scans him from head to toe, front and back with a little bar-shaped device. It beeps enthusiastically all along his left side and goes wild for his right hand. Bruce marks several spots on his body with a Sharpie.

“Okay,” he says when that's done. “Shower. Focus on the outlined areas, but don't scrub too hard, you don't want to break the skin. Use the eye, ear, and mouth stations—make sure you get all orifices,” he adds quickly and his eyes skitter away.

Steve stares. “Even—”

Bruce grimaces. “Yes.”

Peeing seems less awkward now.

They traipse into the next chamber together and Bruce stands in the corner, arms crossed and shoulders hunched while Steve scrubs down, occasionally pointing out missed spots or reminding him to avoid letting the contaminated wash water run down his body.

Then there are more swabs and more scans.

Bruce shakes his head. “Again.”

Steve showers three times, and washes his hair five. He gargles and flushes his ears with hydrogen peroxide. He brushes his teeth three times.

Finally, after nearly an hour, Bruce and JARVIS both declare him clean enough to leave. He puts on a fresh pair of scrubs over hypersensitive skin and lets Bruce lead him out. Tony glances over as they pass through the lab, eyes shadowed inside another one of the tin foil suits. His arms are wrapped tight around his own waist and he looks none too happy.

Bruce escorts Steve straight to the isolation room, which is essentially a cleared out emergency bay. White laminate tile, plain off-white walls, and a steel drain in the center. There's a gurney sitting inside and nothing else. For a second Steve thinks he's going to be stuck in this godawful room alone for the next hour, but a holoscreen springs to existence on one wall, and Tony smirks at him. “Hurry up and wait, huh?”

Steve almost smiles.

They don't talk much while the time drags by, seemingly at a tenth the pace it did while he was with Peter. There's not much to say. Their child is sick and the world is in danger and Steve has a duty that's taking him away at the worst possible moment. Life's never been fair, and he's not sure how he'd gotten lulled into thinking it might be for so long.

When the hour's finally up, Tony comes to meet him before he goes. “I'll take care of Peter,” he says, eyes bright and determined.

“I know you will,” Steve says. “I'll take care of everything else.”

“I know you will,” Tony parrots back at him, and bounces up on his toes to bring their lips together. He curls one arm around Steve's back, hand on the back of his neck and they stay like that for a long moment. “Careful, all right?”

“I always am,” Steve says. It's his best lie.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:** Non-graphic invasive medical procedures.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really uncertain about this chapter, please let me know what you think! Next week's might be a little slow in coming, possibly delayed to the weekend. We'll see how things go.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Just puking.

On the Helicarrier, Steve dresses in the more subdued version of the suit he wears for the missions which require a less...flashy presence. Natasha and Clint's uniforms remain largely the same, though Clint's had to put up with the addition of sleeves—it's going to be cold in Finland.

In the weather report included in the briefing, they'd learned they were heading in right alongside a snowstorm.

Nausea had crept up on Steve while they were going over the plan—or what they have of one anyway. After Fury had dismissed them, Steve had taken a quick trip to the mess to grab a can of ginger ale and then headed for the closest observation deck to get a breather.

The cold air as he steps out onto the catwalk is like a slap in the face and his stomach clenches and settles. The carrier is skimming low and close to the surface of the ocean, waves sliding by underneath in flickers as the light from the sickle moon plays off the caps.

Sighing, Steve leans against the railing, icy wind whipping his hair around and biting at his cheeks. He opens the can of soda with a crack and a hiss and takes a few sips.

When the nausea hadn't set in on the Quinjet trip to the carrier during Bruce's predicted two-to-four hour window, he'd hoped that maybe his body had been able to withstand the radiation sickness. Unfortunately it just seems like the timeline was a little off.

Necessary though it is, he feels awful about leaving. It's never gotten easier to place his duty to the people above his duty to his family, but it's important that he use the blessings given to him to do his part. Even if that means abandoning them at a time like this.

He pulls out his phone to see if Tony's sent any updates.

** Tony 5:50 AM EST (10:50 AM WET)  
February 15, 2031 **

_It was brought to my attention that yesterday was_  
 _Valentine's Day. I think we can safely declare it the_  
 _worst ever._

** Tony 5:50 AM EST (10:50 AM WET)  
February 15, 2031 **

_ And I'm counting the 2021 debacle. _

** Tony 5:58 AM EST (10:58 AM WET)  
February 15, 2031 **

_ Rhodey called. He heard and he's coming to play hooky. _

Steve stares at the phone. _Rhodey didn't know?_ he texts in return. Or at least, that's what he thinks he's typed—by the time he's started the text he's so nauseated it's hard to focus.

He slips the phone into a pocket at his belt and leans forward with a low groan, touching his forehead to the icy bar of the catwalk rail. He's cold enough he's shivering, and it's not helping at all anymore.

Behind him, he hears the door creak open. Then: “There you are, I figured I might find you out here. You finally feeling it?”

“You're such a jerk,” Steve says, voice coming out weaker and wobblier than he expects. He breathes out shakily through his mouth as his stomach turns over. He wants to throw up and he doesn't. This is going to be terrible.

Bucky's hand settles down on his back, rubbing in small circles. “Yeah, and you're a dumb punk.”

The wind rushes past as the carrier glides over the water. Steve's stomach rolls and lurches, rolls and lurches. Then he buckles forward, stomach tightening up so hard it hurts, and he nearly chokes. It feels like he throws up for hours, every muscle clenching with hardly a break in between until he's almost sobbing with the effort.

Bucky catches him by an arm and eases him down to his knees.

Steve spits weakly, the sour taste of bile coating the inside of his mouth. He hasn't felt this awful in a long time.

“Not your best plan,” Bucky mutters. “They're expecting us on the flight deck in ten, are you gonna make it?”

Steve pushes himself up with tissue-weak muscles and takes a sip out of the can still clutched in his hand. It's a little crumpled. “Yeah,” he croaks, “I can make it.”

Bucky sighs, but doesn't comment as he helps Steve get to his feet.

They have to stop twice more on the way so that Steve can lunge into the nearest head. By the second time, it doesn't even matter. There isn't anything left to throw up.

Natasha, Clint, and Coulson are already there waiting when they arrive.

“Sorry,” he tells them. “I was...”

No explanation is forthcoming and Steve doesn't bother trying to come up with one. He can feel Clint and Natasha's eyes on him and he can imagine what they're thinking. There's sweat on his face and he's sure he looks paler than usual.

“Agent Barton, Agent Romanova, Agent Barnes, why don't you begin preflight while I have a word with the captain?”

The three of them board the Quinjet and Steve looks up to meet Coulson's gaze head on, trying to look more hale than he feels.

“Agent Coulson?”

Coulson steps toward him. “Steve,” he says, and an ugly surge of resentment seethes forward, the taste of gunmetal building at the back of Steve's throat.

“Don't,” he snaps.

Coulson's mouth tightens into a thin line. “Steve,” he repeats, deliberately. “We need you on this. These people are very dangerous—”

“I'm aware,” Steve says, trying not to grit his teeth. “Do you have a point, sir?”

“—and I know the timing here is the precise opposite of ideal, but I need to know that you can put that aside and do your job.”

Steve thinks about that. The obvious answer is no. He feels like hell, nausea already building again and thoughts of Peter intrude in an endless low-level loop of fear. If he can't focus, he could easily get someone killed and that's the last thing he wants. He has to be able to do this so that he can go home and look them in the eye and know that he did everything he could to stop the spread of evil in the world.

“Let me worry about Tony and Peter,” Coulson says, gentler.

Steve looks up at him and after a slight hesitation, nods. “You'll tell me if something...if something happens.”

Coulson's mouth pulls into a small, sad smile. “No. I won't.” He pauses and then adds, “But I will do everything in my power to make sure that they are as they are, or better, when you return.”

Steve nods and stands a little straighter. It's almost a relief to submerge himself in the mission to come. “We'll report in at 0700.” He turns to leave.

“Captain?”

“Yes?” he asks, turning back. Coulson's hand is outstretched, palm up.

“I'd like to take your phone, please.”

Steve blinks at him and feels his gut give a little twist that has nothing to do with nausea. “Oh. I—”

“I'm only asking to be polite,” Coulson goes on.

Steve's mouth pinches, hand moving to cover the pocket where it's stowed.

“You have to leave it behind, Captain. You'll be distracted and you know it.”

Grudgingly, Steve slips the phone out and deposits it into Coulson's hand. “I feel like I've just been reprimanded by a teacher.”

A smile plucks at the corner of Coulson's mouth. “You're never too old to learn something. Oh, one more thing: take these.” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a handful of sick bags and a tube of Dramamine.

Steve feels his ears go hot. Of course Coulson knows.

“Thank you, sir,” he mutters, and then, with one last glance toward the phone in Coulson's hand, he turns to board the Quinjet.

~

Tony pulls his phone out and stares at it for what feels like the thousandth time. His last text didn't really require a response, but he's been expecting one anyway.

** Tony 7:48AM  
February 15, 2031 **

_ what's up buttercup? _

He fiddles with the screen, scrolling down like maybe a response will appear if he messes around long enough.

When it doesn't, he tucks it into his pocket again. The elevator doors open and he straightens.

Gwen stares at him from inside, her face pale and her eyes wide. She's a good-looking kid, Peter's got good taste. “Hi, Mister Stark,” she says, voice nearly a whisper.

“Hey there,” he says, forcing his lips into a smile. He waves her forward. “C'mon, I won't bite, promise. Thanks for coming.”

Her fingers curl around the straps of her messenger bag as she joins him. “Thank you for inviting me. I didn't think—” Her mouth closes carefully around the rest of the sentence and her eyes grow wet.

“He keeps saying your name,” Tony admits, leading her forward with a light touch in the middle of her back.

Gwen glances at him, like she doesn't quite believe him.

He nods and puts his hand over his heart. “Hand to God, he does. He sort of had a revelation before things got bad.” He pauses, watching the tears hovering at the brim of Gwen's eyes. Tony's sorry he gave her such a hard time. She was doing a better job looking out for Peter than he had. “He was mad at you, but he never stopped caring.”

A tear streaks down her cheek. “I just— I just wanted to do the right thing,” she chokes.

“You did,” he assures her.

Just before they enter the lab, he pulls her to a stop. “Heads up, things have gotten pretty bad. He's not that coherent. But I think he'd appreciate it that you're here.”

Gwen nods jerkily, squaring her jaw.

Satisfied that she understands, Tony pushes the door open for her and then follows her in. She takes a deep, shaking breath and moves toward the glass. Then she glances back over her shoulder. “Can I—?”

Tony waves a hand. “Yeah, sure, go ahead. JARVIS will make sure he gets it.” He pulls back in a lame attempt to give her some privacy.

“Peter, I'm sorry. Please just get better okay? Please?”

She catches a sharp inhalation in her palm; in seconds there's too many to contain and she's sobbing. Tony edges forward, then just goes for it, gathering her into his arms and shushing her. “It's okay, it's okay,” he says, over and over, and ignores the way his own eyes prick with tears.

“When he wakes up, I'll call you,” Tony says later as he sees her out, because Peter _will_ wake up. He has to.

After she's gone, Tony smiles at Rhodey, who's been hanging around by the door for a half an hour. “Hey, Sugarbear.”

“Don't you 'sugarbear' me,” Rhodey says, and points a finger at the glass. “You weren't gonna tell me about this? I had to hear about it on accident from _Happy?_ What the hell is wrong with you?”

Then he grabs Tony by the shoulder and drags him into a rough hug. Tony huffs out something somewhere between a laugh and a sob and grips him back tight, holding on for dear life.

“Now start at the beginning,” Rhodey demands when they finally break apart.

~

The building is empty.

They've been in Helsinki for all of two hours, getting in and locating the Fjin's lab. It turned out to be a tiny office building on the north side of town.

As soon as they'd gone through the door, Steve had known they wouldn't find anyone. But they go through the motions, checking each room, and doing it quick and quiet as they can.

But the search had turned up a whole lot of nothing.

“They've cleared out,” Clint says, scowling at the push pins strewn about on the carpet from someone's hurried removal of the things covering the cork board on the wall. 

“Pretty recently, looks like,” Natasha says, holstering her gun.

“ _Dammit!_ ”

Steve slams a fist into the wall beside the doorway. “This was our last good lead!”

Natasha levels a hard look at him. “Then we'll find another one. This isn't the first time we've run into a setback.”

“I know!” Steve shouts, whirling around. The swell of nausea that climbs up his throat curbs his anger somewhat, but he deflates completely when he sees his teammates wary expressions. “I know. Sorry. God, sorry.”

“Whatever, we get it,” Clint says. “But it looks like this is going to take longer than we expected. If that's going to be a problem...”

“No,” Steve says. “It won't. I can do this.” He takes a second to breathe deeply, looking around the room. Okay. He won't be going back to Peter or Tony anytime soon. That's...that's all right, he can deal with that. He just needs to get his head in the game. _Really_ sink himself into the mission this time. Phil had been right to take his phone. Of course. Phil is always, aggravatingly, right. “Okay, split up,” he says. “Search everywhere. There's got to be a hint, some kind of clue to where they've gone. You don't pack up this quick and make a clean get away.”

Steve is down on his knees, throwing up for the fourteenth time when he spots a scorched envelope with a partial address.

~

“He was supposed to be back within twenty-four hours!” Tony yells, while a holographic Phil Coulson stares judgingly at him from the middle of the lab, arms crossed. “It's been almost two days!”

“Yes,” he says, drawing out the word. “He _was_ , but then something _happened,_ as is wont to when one is in the field—”

“I don't need sass from you right now, Agent,” Tony snaps.

Coulson sighs, arms unwinding. “The lead that turned up was a bust. The Fjin had cleared out by the time they arrived. Fortunately, they were able to identify another base in the country.  _Un_ fortunately, that base is in a small northern town called Kuusamo and the blizzard rolling through eastern Europe has made travel difficult, at best. Believe me, Stark, I want him home with you at least as much as you do.”

Tony snorts. “Not likely.”

“I'm doing the best I can,” he says. “We have to find the Fjin before they can release this new strain. Medical is predicting the first wave of deaths to be in the _millions_ at the bottom of spread. This is the closest we've come to it's location in months.”

“Yeah, I get it, Phil. I saw the simulations. They asked me to double check their math because they couldn't believe the numbers. I know he can't come home until it's done, but could you just—” Tony drags a hand through his hair, grimaces at the feel of it. “When you talk to him, will you ask him why he can't send a goddamn text once in awhile? A 'Hey, letting you know I'm not dead yet' would be appreciated.”

Coulson winces. “I confiscated his phone.”

Tony's head snaps up. “You  _what?”_

The look Coulson gives him is mulish. “I confiscated his phone. If he was capable of texting and talking to you with everything that's going on, he'd never be able to fully focus on anything he needs to right now.”

“You _cut him off?_ Peter's getting _worse_ , how the hell am I supposed to—”

“You aren't,” Coulson says, mouth pulled into a tight line, his eyes flinty. “It's for his own good.”

Tony slams his hand down on the keyboard, ending the call abruptly. He sits there for several long minutes, hands curled into fists, breathing hard. Coulson had _no fucking right_ to—and without _telling him,_ is he _serious?_

His eyes snap up as Bruce steps through the lab door. “Hey,” he says, “are they going to be back soon?”

“No,” Tony spits out and Bruce looks up, his eyebrows rising.

“No?”

“The base was—they had cleared out,” Tony explains, the sharp, bright fire of his anger dampening as his brain pulls up the information. “They figured out where to, but there's a blizzard or something.”

“Oh,” Bruce says. “Well, that's not the first time. It's unfortunate now of all times though...”

“Coulson confiscated Steve's fucking phone,” Tony says. “Can you believe that? He's a grown man!”

“He's just trying to keep them safe,” Bruce reminds him gently.

“Well—yeah,” Tony says, and drops his eyes, reaching for the phone on the lab table. He's been checking it every half hour, hoping to hear something from Steve, anything, and the damn thing's been sitting in Coulson's locker the whole goddamn time.

“I'm sure it doesn't stop him from thinking of you,” Bruce says, touching his shoulder. “Come on, I've been looking at some of the test studies Scabel did and I've got an idea I want to run by you.”

Tony glances at the screen of his phone one last time and then drops it in a drawer. Fine. He's been cut off from Steve before. He can handle this. He and Bruce will fix Peter and it will be a nice homecoming surprise.

~

The third time Tony nods off looking into the microscope, Bruce sighs and says, “All right, that's enough, Tony. You've got to get some sleep.”

Tony scrubs at his face. “No, come on, the bed's been empty for days, I hate that.” God, does he ever. He'd never expected to hate having the whole bed to himself, but somewhere around their three year anniversary Steve had been gone for nearly a month and Tony had discovered that all the empty space  _bothered_ him.

“You don't have to sleep there,” Bruce says, “but you do have to sleep. It's been three days since Steve left and catnaps in the chair by Peter's bed aren't nearly enough to sustain you this long. Go.”

Tony groans, but gets to his feet when Bruce pulls on his arm and shuffles off toward the door. “You suck.”

“I love you, too, Tony.”

Tony flips him the bird.

He slumps in one corner of the elevator on the ride up to the penthouse, but once he's in the bed it's as terrible as predicted. He groans and says, “JARVIS.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where's Thor. Get me Thor.”

“Certainly, sir.”

After a long pause in which Tony wishes he could just fucking  _sleep_ , he hears, “Tony?”

“Hey, yeah, Thor, buddy, are you busy canoodling?”

“Jane is working in the labs today,” Thor informs him. “What do you require?”

“I need a bed buddy,” he says and knows he sounds pathetic, but God help him, he doesn't care.

“Ah,” Thor says. “I will be there in a moment.”

He hangs up and Tony sighs, and kicks off his shoes.

“You might be more comfortable if you were to undress, sir,” JARVIS points out.

“Shut up, J,”he mutters. But his jeans are poking him and he finally admits to himself that's not a terrible idea, so he worms his way out of them without getting up. They're flopping onto the floor about the time Thor knocks on the door.

“May I enter?”

“Yeah, come in. Hurry up, I'm beat.”

Thor's face is crinkled with a smile when he steps inside, a book in one hand and his phone in the other.

Tony yawns. “Got—enough entertainment there?”

“Aye, I believe so,” Thor says and stoops next to the bed to remove his shoes. He spends another minute gathering up pillows to pile against the headboard and Tony's already started to drift.

“S'rry 'f I k'ck you,” he mumbles into the pillow. “Nigh'mare central la'ely.”

“Sleep, Tony.”

It's not the same, but it's better.

Tony sleeps.

~

Clint and Natasha meet Steve and Bucky for breakfast when they wake up in Kuusamo. Clint squints at them, looking as roughshod as he usually does in the morning. “Did you even sleep?”

“No, I couldn't,” Steve replies as Bucky grunts from where his face is buried in his folded arms and a funny expression goes over both their faces. He's been dying to talk about this for hours though, so he plows ahead, spreading out the hunks of charred map and dossiers he's been scrutinizing all night. “I think there's something here, but I just can't put my finger on it. You guys have gotta help me out. I thought about waking you, but I've got a good feeling about this one and I wanted you guys to be ready to go.”

Bucky sits up and scrubs his face as Natasha gives Clint a long look and then sits down at the table, Clint joining them a moment later. “Let's see what you've got here,” she says.

Clint flags down the lady running the place and orders a coffee.

“Now, see, look here,” Steve says, shuffling through the papers to find one of the maps that had actually had a few faint pencil marks still visible in one charred region not too far from where they are now. “I think these are coordinates—”

“They are,” Natasha interrupts, and Steve blinks at her. “I sent them off to the Helicarrier last night.”

“So they found it? The new base?”

“They did.” Steve grins fiercely, but it drops when she continues. “It burned to the ground six months ago. We think it was a research post and something went... wrong. Rather than risk a small scale release that would tip off the world to what they're planning before they were ready, they destroyed everything. Including all the personnel who were inside.”

“Punishment for their failure,” Bucky pronounces and drains the cold mug at Steve's elbow.

Clint wrinkles his nose and shakes his head and Steve swallows down a surge of bile, half from the thought of such casual mass murder and half the residual radiation sickness. He hasn't thrown up in a couple days, but he's been a little weak and nausea comes on easy

“Sorry,” Natasha says, squeezing Steve's wrist.

He shakes it off and says, “Okay, so that's another dead... end. But then this—” He hunts up one of the scorched printed pages where he's circled three lines in red. “—is a shipping manifest. And if they were using that location as a research lab, then it's not the only one. Which we already guessed, I know,” he says before Bucky can finish rolling his eyes and point it out again. “But that was _just_ a guess and if they just burned one to the ground, they had to have more, right? It would set them back too much to destroy their _only_ research lab. This doesn't have an address on it,” Steve admits, “but it does list the same item three times. If they're all going to the same place, why list it three times on the same—thank you,” he says, flashing a smile at the woman as she brings them four fresh mugs of coffee.

“My pleasure,” she says, patting Steve's arm. “My grandad fought with the Allies and he always spoke highly of you.”

Steve blinks up at her. “You know who I am?”

She huffs. “Was it supposed to be a secret?” Bucky snorts at that and she says, “I recognize you too, _sala-ampuja_ , from the pictures. Your hair is longer, but your eyes are the same.”

Bucky scowls as Steve's face heats up in chagrin and they both shoot a dirty look at Clint when he tries to hide a laugh with a cough.

The woman looks over the spread of papers on the table. “I assume you're here looking for the _kummituksia_?”

“Kummituksia?” Natasha repeats, brow furrowing at the same time Bucky says, “Ghosts?”

The woman nods. “They show up one day and are everywhere, in their grey clothing. It is like uniforms, but not. They do not speak to us. They do not look at us. It is like they are not really here. And it is safest to pretend they are not.”

“What do you mean?”

She shrugs. “People ask questions of course. Why are they here? Why are they dressed like that? What is on the trucks? But people who ask the _kummituksia_ these questions... they have accidents. Or they disappear. So we stop asking. We just leave them alone and hope they leave soon.”

“They come through town,” Steve says, after looking at the rest of his team. “Where do they go on the other side?”

“The trucks go north, into one of the fjords a couple of kilometers from town.”

“North, again,” Clint mutters. “Why is it always north? I'm freezing my dick off.”

Steve shoots him a quelling look. “And you can tell us which one?”

She beams at him and pats his cheek. “Of course I can.”

~

Tony can barely see straight. 

He's exhausted and he wants an answer, _god_ , does he want an answer, but he doesn't have any.

He's surrounded—literally _surrounded_ by the products of his own genius—and he can't even solve this stupid problem.

He helped Clint hear again after that accident that left him 80% deaf in both ears.

He came up with a way to filter blood on a scale that was frankly ridiculous after the infection from those purple ferret aliens—with Bruce's help, but still. And yet when it comes to something like antivenin and radiation absorption—both of which he's _also_ helped develop tangential technologies for in the past—he can't do a goddamn thing.

He's as helpless as he's ever been, and it hurts so much worse than all the times he's almost lost Steve or almost died himself, because this is _Peter_ , and he promised the kid on that first day that he'd never let anything bad happen to him, that his daddies were superheroes and that meant he was the safest kid in, like, the whole universe, because there was _nothing_ they wouldn't do for him and now he's being forced to break his promise.

He's still trying to think of a way to fix this, thinking of ever more insane possibilities and rejecting them just as fast because he's not going to kill Peter trying to save him.

He shifts the gauntlet-encased hand he has lying on the bed, Peter's thin, frail-looking fingers sitting limp in the palm over the repulsor. God, this can't be _happening._

His joints ache because even with all the advancements in medicine, he's still old and right now he's feeling it more than ever. Not moving for hours and consuming too much caffeine and not enough food, even with everyone trying to feed him constantly, he's sore and stiff and tired and he would love to just go to bed and sleep forever, except he can't even do that because sleep brings with it nightmares and his reality sucks so badly right now that he doesn't need to chase self-inflicted torture and watch the future he's trying to deny play out in a hundred different ways, each one of them worse.

He looks away from Peter's hand, gaze flicking between the displays, that terrible number of the muted dosimeter creeping higher and higher, the heartbeat monitor that is too fast or too slow, but never just right, and the sight of Peter, washed out, skinnier than ever, skin and bones from where Tony's sitting, his forearms bandaged. They're not bleeding anymore, but the wounds are still there, and they're still seeping goop that hardens and causes Peter pain if they don't stay on top of cleaning it out regularly, which they'd found out the hard fucking way.

Peter's muscles still twitch and spasm, like someone has a low-grade electrical current that they're randomly hitting him with, like a sadistic son of a bitch.

He's stopped recognizing people and he's not always sure where he is, and according to the thermal imager, his brain is quite literally cooking in his skull, but all the ice packs and cold blankets and the freezing temperature of the room aren't doing anything but keep that at a steady 104.6.

On top of that, he's on oxygen now—since he had what looked a helluva lot like an asthma attack—and he's got so many IV's in his hand, Bruce is talking about a rotation between hands to keep from causing permanent scarring.

But now even with all that, he's sleeping peacefully at the moment and that is something Tony can't put into words, how relieved he is at that.

He doesn't mean to fall asleep, really, and he regrets it as soon as he wakes up and feels the way his already stiff muscles have petrified.

He creaks and groans. “ _Ow_. JARVIS, the hydraulics need work, remind me after Peter wakes up again,” he mumbles, throat dry and rasping. Then his forehead creases. “Speaking of, what time is it? Gimme the display, J.”

“Certainly, sir,” JARVIS murmurs.

It reads 4:24 PM.

He jerks up a little, reaching to scrub at his face only to realize he can't because of the damn face plate. He couldn't have slept for that long, someone would have woken him up. He looks at Peter and sees that he's still sleeping peacefully, but that's not reassuring, not reassuring at _all_ because he's not moving.

Kid's been restless since before they brought him in here, and more so the last few days, but he's not moving now and he _hasn't_ in the time Tony was out. Not so much as an inch.

With the fever unbroken and the breathing still raspy and his pulse far, far too slow…

Something's wrong.

The suddenness of the realization takes Tony's breath away and he's on his feet before he even thinks about moving, leaning over the bed and shaking Peter's shoulder, and nothing, not a blink, not a nose wrinkle, not a huff of air, nothing, he's totally unresponsive.

“ _BRUCE!”_ he howls.

~

Tony freezes, mid-stride when Bruce finally emerges from the decontamination chambers, and, in a very carefully and fragily calm voice, says, questioning, “Bruce?”

Bruce hesitates, not looking at him.

Tony stares, eyes wide and dark with dread and denial in equal measures. “Bruce,” he says again and there's a small, pleading note in his otherwise emotionless voice.

Bruce swallows and turns his palms up, starts to talk. “He's... He's changing, Tony. At the cellular level. I don't— I don't know what more we can do. We can't stop the spread of the venom or the radiation and those are the factors that seem to be causing the changes, so—”

“Changes— _What_ changes?” Tony croaks.

Bruce's shoulders lift and stick that way, his hands waving. “Everything. Every single part of his body seems to be altering in some way. That's why the fever, the rash, the muscle spasms, the seizures.”

Tony's face goes white, like his throat's been slit. “His _brain's_ changing.”

Bruce lets out a shuddering breath, the lump in his throat like a fist against his trachea. “Yes.”

Tony sits abruptly on one of the lab stools, gaze fixed and staring at nothing and Bruce cringes, but makes himself go on.

“He's slipped into a coma. And I'm afraid...”

Tony's eyes flick toward him, fear creeping over his features as Bruce approaches.

“If things carry on the way they have been, Peter—” He swallows hard around a sudden surge of grief.

“No,” Tony whispers.

JARVIS finishes what Bruce can't. “By my calculations, sir, he will reach fatal levels in three days time.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay!!!! So so so sorry about the delay, this is the really tough part and I wanted to make sure that the ending is not half-assed after you guys have come 85K for it!
> 
> SO HERE IS THE NEXT CHAPTER FINALLY. Thank you so so much for your patience. <333
> 
> Double thank you to polka-dot-princess and post-and-out for their help!
> 
> Warnings at the end.

As Steve and the others trek out of town, a bank of fog creeps in and pretty soon visibility is pretty much nonexistent. Going forward becomes too dangerous and they decide to build a shelter and wait it out. With any luck it's hindering the Fjin just as much.

It's dim in the shelter, narrow beams of pale light seeping through the gaps in the branches of the pine boughs they used to construct it. The four of them huddle together to share body heat and Steve can't help the way he shivers, the cold of the snow beneath him quickly moving into his bones. Natasha takes Clint's scarf and wraps it carefully around Bucky's metal arm, worried the ice that the fog is leaving behind will mess it up somehow.

They've been on the move or trying to piece together clues about the Fjin's whereabouts almost non-stop since arriving in Helsinki, so Steve hasn't had much time to think. He's not particularly happy to have been afforded the opportunity, especially not out here. Not when he wants nothing more than to be home.

All the fog and snow has a muffling effect, until Steve feels claustrophobic with it, as it seems to magnify his separation from Tony and Peter.

Today marks day four since he left. He should have been back days ago. Tony's probably losing his mind, not being able to get close to Peter. But maybe Betty and Bruce have found a way to fix what's wrong, maybe Peter is getting better even as they sit here.

God, he hopes so.

He's not stupid enough to think he'll be so lucky, but he hopes so.

Bucky shifts next to him, nudging him in the ribs with his elbow. “Don't do this to yourself.”

“Don't d-do what?” Steve says, but he doesn't have the energy to make it convincing.

“You know what,” Bucky says, pinning him with a look. Natasha and Clint peer around Buck's shoulder, their faces thinly veiled by the fog so they hardly seem real.

Steve sighs and lets his head roll forward onto his crossed arms. “I can't stop, Buck. Peter's sick, sicker than he's ever been, and Tony can't—” He takes a shaky breath and despite knowing he's done the right thing, that he _had_ to come on this mission, he regrets it. He regrets leaving, regrets letting Phil take his phone, regrets, just for an instant, agreeing to take part in Project Rebirth.

The warmth of Bucky's palm settles over the back of Steve's neck. “It's gonna be okay,” he says, voice low.

Steve wishes to God he could believe that.

~

 _Please,_ Tony types later as he finishes an email he's blasting to just about everyone in the known world, _please. Send this to anyone you know, anyone you trust. Somebody please help me save my kid._

He hits send and then buries his hands in his hair, breathing through the shudders coursing through his body. He can't pretend that he's got a handle on this anymore. Peter's dying and there's nothing he can do but sit here and _wait_ and hope to god someone knows something, can think of something, anything, that will help save his little boy.

He'd do anything, give _anything,_ if it meant Peter would be okay. He'd go back to that godforsaken cave in Afghanistan for the rest of his life if it meant Peter could have his.

Every stupid, awful thing he's ever done was building up to this, to Peter, so he can't be dying. He _can't._

Peter has the chance to do what Tony should have been doing right from the start—helping people, privatizing fucking—fucking _galactic_ peace. He's so goddamn smart and every inch Steve's son, determined to do his part. So he _can't_ be dying. It wouldn't be fair.

Tony steps up to the glass, staring at Peter's still form on the bed. He could go in there. He has override codes. It would be easy. It would be _painful_ , but Tony's been there, done that. He can deal with the physical pain. But this blade in his chest he can't shake, the way it _burns_ when he thinks about not having Peter anymore...

There aren't words.

He scuffs the floor with his toe and then sniffs and sticks his hands in his pockets, and draws back.

He can't quite take his eyes off Peter, even though looking at him doesn't make it better. It's not that he thinks Peter will die if he looks away, he's not that naive, but he wants to remember Peter being alive. Comatose, white as the sheets he's laying on, and stuck with needles and wires all over the place, but still here in the flesh.

"Tony?"

He startles, hands clenching into tight fists in his pockets, then turns around. Pepper was the one who spoke, but both she and Rhodey are staring past him at Peter.

"Jesus," Rhodey says, stepping up next to Tony and pressing a palm to the glass. "I still can't believe he did this to _himself._ ”

Tony looks down, his lips twitching with the urge to defend Peter, to place the blame squarely where it belongs: on Scabel's shoulders—and maybe on his and Steve's too, yeah—but it doesn't really matter whose fault it is anymore. Placing blame won't undo any of this.

He looks up instead and finds Pepper looking at him. Her eyes are glossy and her nose is red and she hides it behind a tissue as she sniffles self-consciously.

“Who told you?” he asks, voice coming out emotionless.

“JARVIS,” Rhodey says, turning to face him. His back straightens and his shoulders square a little. “Then Betty. Tony, I...” His mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out. Finally, he says, “I'm so sorry,”and the lines of his brow twist.

Pepper swallows a couple of times and composes herself. “I know this is...awful, god, it's so awful, and I don't want to do it, Tony, but we have to—to think ahead. You're not going to be in any condition to do it after— And the sooner we get everything settled the better it will be—”

“Once he's dead, you mean,” Tony says, and Pepper flinches like he's struck her.

“Betty said he has three days, give or take,” Rhodey says.

Tony's throat closes up as he remembers Bruce's face. JARVIS' voice. _By my calculations..._

Everything collapses in on him.

“I can't,” he rasps, “not...not without Steve. He doesn't—he doesn't even _know,”_ Tony says, and the realization takes his knees out from under him. He staggers and Rhodey grabs hold of him, wrestles him onto a stool. “ _He doesn't even know,_ ” he chokes into Rhodey's shoulder and a sob catches in his throat.

“I know,” Rhodey murmurs in his ear, “I know. I'm gonna talk to Fury, see if we can get him home.”

Tony shakes his head, feels the tears starting to streak down his face. “Won't matter. Peter versus millions of civilians? There's n-no choice. He's gonna—he's gonna save the world and come back to find—”

The words choke him and Tony dissolves into wracking sobs as what he's facing sinks in. He's going to bury his kid. Peter won't even make it the month and a half till his sixteenth birthday. Steve will never again see him alive.

He cries so hard that it actually _hurts,_ horrible wrenching noises that tear at his throat, that he can't stifle no matter how hard he tries. It feels like it goes on endlessly, his face pressed into Rhodey's shirt as he soaks it through with tears. He can't breathe; his cheeks burn.

Finally he's too exhausted for anything but the slow, steady trickle of tears.

Pepper speaks, hesitantly, her own voice thick and halting. "I c-can take care of most of it. I'll… I have the preparations you and Steve made f-for yourselves, I can… those will help. I mean, I assume. There are just a few things I can't… but I can narrow down the choices? Give you just a few things to have to decide between?"

Tony shudders at the thought of what “preparations” entails and Rhodey's arms squeeze a little tighter around him, his cheek pressing against the side of Tony's head. “We'll be with you every step,” he says, voice low and harsh. “But for now, you need a break.”

They drag Tony to his feet and he makes the mistake of looking at Peter. The emotion floods back in an instant, and Tony breathes in, heaving and panicky. Peter's _dying_. He can't _rest._ “Rhodey,” he pleads, “No—I gotta—” He wipes frantically at his face, wincing at how tender the skin is, but it's useless.

“Just for a little while,” Rhodey says, trying for soothing. “Just lie down in the MedBay, okay? He'll still be right here.” Tony can't breathe steady enough to argue. It's too exhausting to fight when Rhodey directs him away, out of the lab with an arm looped around his back.

After that, he's barely aware of Rhodey telling Pepper that he'll make sure Tony gets some rest and then they can start the arrangements.

Tony grasps at a pillow, burying his face in it as Rhodey guides him onto one of the beds. It feels like he's having a panic attack, his chest tight and exacerbating each sob. He feels like he's drowning.

Everything blurs around him, till there's nothing but _Peter. Peter. Peter._

~

“On my count,” Steve says, hefting the shield in his hands and taking a breath. If all goes well, this could be the turning point. They've been hunting the Fjin and their mutant plague production facilities for nearly a year now, but it's a small operation and that makes it tough to ferret them out.

“Three.”

A group like Hydra, numbering the hundreds, if not thousands, presents its own challenges, but finding their bases is not usually one of them. It's hard to conceal hundreds of people with a now-infamous symbol pinned on their lapels for very long.

Concealing less than a dozen is considerably easier.

“Two.”

But inside this little ice-covered structure they may have finally found them.

“One.”

Success is so close Steve' can taste it, like chocolate, thick and sweet on his tongue.

“Mark!”

Steve kicks in the back door.

It splinters the frame, hitting the floor inside with a sharp bang. Three startled yells follow and Steve flings the shield through the gaping doorway. One of the men goes down when it smashes into his sternum, hurling him back into the far wall.

“Surrender now!” Steve barks at the others. The blonde sneers at him.

“No chance in hell, Captain.”

“Fine,” Steve retorts, “have it your way.”

He lunges forward and puts him down with one swing of his fist.

“How about you?” he asks the remaining member. From the other side of the wall he can hear crashing, the thud of bodies hitting wood. The other man can hear it, too.

He looks nervous.

Steve raises his eyebrows. Stepping to the side, he scoops up the shield, eyes on the his mark the whole way. The guy breaks out in a sweat when Steve's got her on his arm again.

Then something slams into the door.

It bursts open, a body tumbling through, sprawling across the floor. The person's head is bloodied and they're obviously unconscious.

Natasha leans through a moment later, blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Sorry to interrupt,” she says, and grabs the man by the collar, hauling him back through the doorway and shutting the door behind them.

“Okay, okay, okay!” the guy says. “I get it, I surrender. Please don't give me a concussion—I get migraines.”

Steve slings the shield onto his back and pulls a handful of zip ties from his belt. “You should get that checked out.”

~

By the time Tony slogs his way back to consciousness, JARVIS is reporting that there's been a media leak. The tabloids aren't the only ones printing speculation about Peter's condition anymore. “We have to act now,” Pepper says. Her hair is a mess of flyaways and there are creases under her eyes that don't normally appear. She's clinging to her normal composure by her fingernails. Tony should feel something about the news, but he doesn't. There's just...exhaustion. His emotions have left him, numbness settling over him like a second skin. Pepper goes on, “I'm going to contact the police and get the investigation started—”

“The investigation,” Tony echoes.

Pepper glances up at him, her eyes wide. “If Peter passes, Scabel will be responsible for murder.”

Tony goes still, the thought freezing him in place. He jolts when Pepper's hand slides around his arm.

“Tony,” she says cautiously, “I'm going to take care of as much as I can, but you're going to have to talk to the police.”

“Sure,” Tony says. “Yeah.” The rest of the Avengers family is starting to trickle in and it's a good enough reason to push that aside for later. Much later.

Pepper nods, hesitates, and then turns and exits, murmuring a reply to the greetings she receives. Tony can feel the gazes of his friends, and can't bring himself to do anything in response. He stands there, silent, and waits.

When everyone's gathered around, crowded around the lab tables, looking at him with obvious trepidation, Tony clears his throat.

“Ah, so, I have some news,” he starts, and scratches at his forehead.

“Something's wrong, isn't it?” Darcy asks, her voice wavering.

Tony glances at her and feels his own mouth tremble. He give a terse nod. “Peter... Peter's not doing great. Bruce and Betty think, ah...” For a second he can't find his voice. Finally, he forces the words out: “They think he's got less than three days.”

Darcy and Sam both gasp.

“Tony—”

“Oh god,” Jane whispers.

~

They discover a trapdoor in the back room that leads to a lab and a locked, windowless room. They subdue the two lab workers without much trouble and break down the door to the locked room.

That's where they find Andrasko.

His head comes up slowly when Steve steps through the door; there's blood matting his hairline and his left eye is purple, swollen completely shut. His clothes are torn in a couple of places and splattered with blood in various stages of drying. He blinks his one good eye and slurs, relief thick in his voice, “Captain.”

“Andrasko,” Steve says and rushes over to untie the bindings holding him to the chair. “What happened? They made you?”

“Da,” he sighs, and winces as his hands spring free. Steve helps him to bring them around slowly even though his heart is starting to race. This is it, they just have to get the information about the deployment and he'll be able to go home. He waits, watching while Andrasko rubs his arms, and locks his jaw to bite back the urge to hurry him along. The man's been through a lot and he doesn't deserve that. But Andrasko looks up after just a moment and says, “Time is of essence, you must go. They discover me and push hard to move deployment. Coordinates are 65.080528, 24.650802. You must go!” he urges and Steve nods, pushing to his feet.

“Widow,” he calls, “give me a sitrep!”

“Three muscle, two lab rats, all neutralized. Three hour trek to the Quinjet, if the weather holds.”

Steve's mind races. “All right, let's get personnel in here, we'll lock them in and send S.H.I.E.L.D. for them later. Andrasko—you feel up to a hike?”

~

Tony sniffles and swipes one grease-stained wrist under his nose. His eyes are burning from exhaustion. For the better part of an hour, he's been flipping through the pages of the casket catalog the funeral home had forwarded at Pepper's request.

He keeps hoping this has all been a bad dream. He wants Peter to come down and fall asleep at the lab table to his right. He wants togo back to two weeks ago, when he was happy and healthy. When the worst thing he had to worry about was Peter falling in love with a police captain's daughter.

There's a shush of air moving as the door opens behind him and Tony jerks around, blinking rapidly.

Pepper tilts her head, expression soft and achingly sad.

“Hey,” he says, ignoring how thick his voice sounds. “What are you doing here? It's three o'clock in the morning.”

“You _know_ that?” Pepper says, pained.

Tony huffs, out of his mouth because he's congested, gross. He taps his fingers on the lab table and then glances up at her and admits, “I'm counting hours, Pep. One-oh-six, in case you were curious.”

“Oh, Tony,” she says and moves forward to wrap her arms around his shoulders.

“I just—fuck.”

Pepper presses a kiss to his temple and Tony buries his face in her shoulder, waving one hand at the display showing the catalog.

“How the hell am I supposed to do this,” he whispers. “How the hell am I supposed to pick one of these. We've had our funerals planned for _years_ , but this— This was never supposed to happen!”

“I know,” Pepper says.

She stays up with him until dawn, breaking down in tears around four-thirty and dragging him along with her. He still feels stranded, lost and isolated, but with this thin string, the tiniest safety line linking him to Pepper. He clings to it, gripping tight with both hands.

~ 

Bucky stashes his rifle in its specified Quinjet compartment with half an eye on Steve, who'd wound up carrying Andrasko most of the trip.

Andrasko's not a particularly big guy, but any amount of weight for a distance like that is a strain. He'd tried to trade off with him, but Steve had refused to give him up.

The nearness of their goal seems to be powering him though—he's barely out of breath.

In the cockpit, Bucky hears Natasha's voice change pitch slightly and he knows from experience it's not a good pitch change. Clint catches his eye from the back of the plane and they both glance at Steve in unison.

Thankfully, he's absorbed in getting Andrasko situated.

“You want me to get a first aid kit?” Clint asks, and not for the first time Bucky thanks his lucky stars that they're all on the same page.

“Yeah, good idea,” Steve says, kneeling at Andrasko's feet. Bucky slips quietly into the cockpit.

“Understood,” Natasha is saying. “We'll be in contact.” She pulls the headset off and glances up to meet Bucky's eyes. He doesn't even have to ask before she's speaking. “Something's wrong,” she says in a low voice. “They wanted a timeline.”

Bucky curses and then quickly covers his mouth. He and Natasha both glance out into the jet's cabin, but Clint is keeping Steve effectively distracted.

“We tell him S.H.I.E.L.D. requested Andrasko be sent ahead,” Natasha continues in undertone. “You escort him. Find out what's wrong. Bring back reinforcement so we can get him out of here.”

Bucky nods. God, he hopes this isn't as bad as he fears.

~ 

Pepper has been in and out of the lab adjoining Peter's room several times today and each time, the one constant is Tony.

Dozens of others have appeared over the course of the day to offer their support: several of the X-Men, the Fantastic Four, the Warriors Three and Sif, Adla and the girls...

And of course Sam, Thor, Darcy and Jane have been spending a lot of time there, lingering as close to Tony as Tony will permit.

Despite their near-certainty that Peter will die sometime late tomorrow night, Bruce and Betty are working feverishly. They refuse to give up, even in the face of Peter's worsening condition and their severe disadvantages.

According to Bruce, the radiation has grown powerful enough that it's no longer safe for the majority of them to enter Peter's room. There's a red taped line on the floor blocking off the quarter of the lab closest to it. Bruce had explained something about distance and obstructions weakening the radiation to a safe level beyond that point, but it makes Pepper nervous—mainly because she's spotted Tony rocking on his heels right at the edge, staring down at it.

But now he's nowhere to be seen.

She frowns.

“You're after Tony?” Darcy asks from where she's seated at one of the lab tables, and she sniffles. Her eyes move to look past Pepper, to the two men standing behind her and her eyes grow wide and worried, no doubt at the sight of the neatly pressed uniform of the Captain and the bright gold badge hanging around the detective's neck.

“Don't worry,” Pepper says, “they're here to help, or they'd still be in reception.”

Darcy considers them for a moment, wiping at her nose with the back of her wrist. “I know you're just doing your job and all, but you gotta cut him a break, okay?”

Logan swaggers up behind her, chewing on a cigar, and squints at the officers. He lifts a paper cup in one hand, still staring at them, and says, “Got some trash I was gonna take out. You need me to get anything else?”

Pepper holds up a hand, smothering a fond, but exasperated smile. “No, that won't be necessary, thank you.”

Logan grunts and continues to give them the stink eye. Pepper appreciates the sentiment, even if it's wholly unnecessary.

Darcy points toward the lab door. “He's over across the way.”

“Thank you,” Pepper says, and they share wobbly smiles of solidarity. Then Pepper turns and says, “Gwen, honey, do you want to stay here?”

Gwen peeks out from behind her father and nods silently.

“This is—”

“Darcy,” Gwen says. “I know, hi.”

“Hey, hon,” Darcy says, and waves her forward. “Peter would be glad you're here.”

“So it's true?” Gwen says, nose slowly turning pink. “What they've been saying in the news?”

“'Fraid so,” Darcy says. Pepper ushers the two men out, aware of the concern on Captain Stacy's face. She feels for him, but she can't quite help the small dark part of her that wishes everything were the other way around.

Across the way from the lab and Peter's room are the recovery rooms. They're somewhat nicer than the typical hospital room, with floor to ceiling windows on the far side. Today the view is rather limited; it's dark as dusk outside due to the heavy cloud cover and the windows are all fogged over, rain streaking down the glass in thick rivulets.

The catering table she'd ordered stands in front of them, and everyone in the room is gathered around it, filling plates or standing in small clusters speaking in low voices. They're giving the end of the table a wide berth, and it's there that Pepper finds Tony.

Rhodey is standing next to him, clearly trying to coax him into eating.

“For the twelfth time, Rhodey, I'm _not hungry_ ,” she hears Tony say, irritation thick in his voice.

Instead of arguing further, Rhodey lifts the cup in his other hand. “Then at least drink some of this, will you?”

“Will it get you off my back?” Tony demands.

“Yes.”

“Fine.” Tony takes the cup, and takes three violent sips, glaring at Rhodey while he does it. Pepper clears her throat.

“Tony, the officers are here to speak to you.”

Tony goes still and Rhodey edges just a little bit closer to him. The already quiet conversations at the other end of the table go almost silent.

Slowly, Tony draws the straw out of his mouth. “Captain Stacy,” he says, and the Captain's mouth pulls into a thin line at the tone. Tony's eyes flick to the other man. “Who's your friend?”

Captain Stacy glances at Pepper and when she nods, he steps forward, clearing his throat. “Mister Stark, this is Detective Kaul from the Special Victims Unit.”

“We're very sorry to hear about Peter,” Detective Kaul says.

Tony's jaw clenches and he crosses his arms. “Yeah, well. You can't believe everything you hear in the news. We haven't given up on him just yet. How can I help you gentlemen?”

Detective Kaul glances over at Pepper and says, “We were told that you have reason to believe what happened to Peter is the result of criminal activity.”

Tony snorts derisively. “You could say that.” He eyes Detective Kaul critically. “SVU, huh?”

Kaul fidgets even though he's clearly trying to suppress it. “Yes, sir.”

Tony makes him sweat a minute longer, then turns his gaze on Captain Stacy. “Is Gwen here?”

Stacy's expression turns mulish. “Yes, she is. One of her best friends is—”

Visibly, he realizes what he's about to say and who he's about to say it to, and he clenches his jaw down around the words. That's pretty much the only reason Pepper doesn't bodily drag him from the room, and Jane has moved half a dozen steps closer, her expression murderous.

Tony tilts his chin up, eyes narrowing. “'Best friends' is mischaracterizing it a little bit, don't you think?” he asks, voice crackling with ice.

Stacy's fingers tighten around the brim of the hat in his hands.

Tony steps forward, pressing into Stacy's space. “What, Peter's not good enough for your kid?”

Captain Stacy barks out a derisive laugh. “Don't try to bullshit me, Stark, I've heard about how you treat her. Gwen isn't good enough for _your_ kid?”

There are a few tense seconds while they stare each other down. Then Rhodey sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose and mutters, “This is some Romeo and Juliet bullshit.”

Tony crumples and coughs, rubbing at his forehead. The gesture makes Pepper ache, because it's something he's picked up from Steve. “Is she...doing okay?”

Stacy sighs, and his straight shoulders slump, too. For a moment they're just two fathers, worried about their children. “I don't know,” he admits. “She's been crying a lot _._ When she's not crying, she's usually spitting mad...” He shrugs helplessly. “The therapist says it's normal, but I don't...” He covers his mouth and then pulls his hand away, waving it. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't be doing this.”

“I asked,” Tony points out.

“If I may get us back on track?” Kaul interjects. “We don't want to take up more of your time than is necessary, Mister Stark.”

“What I've got left,” Tony mutters, and for a minute he looks like he might throw up.

“Start at the beginning,” Stacy prompts, shifting uncomfortably.

Tony tells them everything. About the argument with Peter about the internship, the slow onset of the symptoms. Tony starts to choke on his words when he tells them about Scabel, about their history, but they seem to understand that it will be easier for Tony if they pretend they can't see. Stacy and Kaul offer up a half-hearted rebuke for failing to involve the police sooner.

It's a long conversation, and Rhodey sidles up next to Pepper halfway through it, offering a bagel already smeared in cream cheese. “How are you holding up?” he asks when she takes it.

“Ugh,” she says, and can't find anything better than that to say.

Rhodey sighs and pulls her into a one-armed hug. “Yeah. I feel that.”

“Okay, Mister Stark,” Kaul says finally. “Thank you for your time. We'll let you know if we need anything further from you.”

“Yeah, great, thanks for coming,” Tony replies, attention already moving on. “Let's do this again soon.”

Captain Stacy looks displeased with the dismissal, but he bends his head and goes. Pepper squeezes Rhodey's hand and breaks off to lead them out. “Thank you for your time, gentlemen,” she says as she joins them.

Captain Stacy nods his head, slightly awkward. “Just give the office a call after…" He trails off and holds up a business card. Pepper takes it and reads the information for the city's medical examiner's office. "To arrange transport and the, uh, autopsy," Stacy explains.

“Autopsy,” Tony echoes from across the room and dread rolls through Pepper. She knows that tone. Oh no. “There's not going to _be_ an autopsy.”

Nervously, Detective Kaul clears his throat and says, “Sir, if everything you've told us is accurate, then this Scabel is going to be facing murder charges. An autopsy is—”

“ _No!_ ” Tony snarls, one shaking finger pointed at them and Rhodey's hand wrapped around his other arm. “No way in _hell._ He's already been through enough!”

“Tony,” Rhodey says in a low voice, but Tony just repeats again, louder, “ _No._ ”

His eyes glitter with anger. “They're not going to cut him open like a goddamned science project. He's not a lab rat!” Tony's voice breaks and Rhodey squeezes his arm gently.

“I know, Tony. I know he's not. But they have to. They have to do the autopsy so they can put Scabel where he belongs. You know that. Peter won't feel it.”

“It's not going to happen!” Tony shouts. Pepper can see him shaking and it kills her because she understands, the idea of anyone cutting into Peter makes her feel sick, but there's nothing they can do.

“I know this is hard,” Captain Stacy begins and Tony lights up, all but vibrating with fury.

“You have _no idea,_ ” he spits out coldly. “No fucking clue.”

“It's not optional, Mister Stark,” he goes on, the muscle in his jaw ticking.

“What are you going to do?” Tony demands. “Stop me from burying my son?”

Everyone in the room flinches.

Captain Stacy grimaces. "Yes. Without a report from the ME's office, they can't grant your burial or cremation permit. I'm sorry, but this is going to happen whether you like it or not. Your son was the victim of the crime and an autopsy must be performed to document the circumstances of his death."

Tony casts around for a moment, then his eyes lock on her. “Pepper. Lawyers. Get them.”

“Tony,” she starts, but Captain Stacy holds out a hand, requesting permission to speak with a look. She nods reluctantly.

“I'm not trying to be an ass, okay?” he says, gentle, but unyielding. “The city is not going to back down on this one though, especially not given what Scabel was trying to do. There are too many people in too many high places who want answers—or who _will_ , when they know that there are even questions to be asked—and they can and will keep you in the courts until they get what they want. Meanwhile, you and your family won't be able to lay Peter to rest and get some closure."

“You. Can't. Have him,” Tony grits.

Stacy sighs and scrubs at his face. “Okay, look. How about this: we'll do it here, in your lab, under your supervision, and you can make your own record.”

“What part of _no_ are you not comprehending? How about _I_ do it, and send you the fucking report.”

“Tony, please,” Stacy says, and even goes so far as to press his hands together. “ _Please_ don't make me get a subpoena. Let us do our jobs, so that you can get justice for him. So this doesn't happen to someone else's kid.”

Tony stares at him for a long moment, mouth pulled into a sharp downward curve, his eyes gleaming darkly. Finally, he blinks and looks away. “He's all we've got,” he says in a small voice.

“I know,” Stacy assures him. “I know. And we'll take care of him. But you have to let us do this.”

Tony shudders, and gives one sharp nod. Then he gives them his back.

Pepper ushers them out quickly.

~ 

Steve is rocking from the balls of his feet to his toes, just waiting for the go ahead to move in, when out of the corner of his eye he spots Bucky.

He frowns and turns. “Buck? What are you doing here? I thought you went ahead to join the carrier?”

The grim expression on Bucky's face doesn't waver. He doesn't look at the others, and they don't look at him, all eyes focused on Steve. “We have to go, Steve,” he says.

Steve glances around at all of them and then back at Bucky. “What? No, we're waiting for the go-ahead, then—”

Bucky shakes his head, jaw clenching. “They've got this. We have to go.”

Steve's frown deepens. “Buck, what are you saying? Go _where?_ ”

Reaching to clasp Steve's shoulder, Bucky's grim expression folds into something more regretful and Steve's stomach starts to drop. “Home,” Bucky says, and it falls out completely. “It's Peter. I'm...I'm sorry, Steve.”

The shield falls from Steve's hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Violence, terminal child, grieving, suicidal thoughts, police presence.
> 
>  
> 
> With luck, the next chapter will be up next week, but I will promise nothing, just in case. Feel free to message me on tumblr (musicalluna.tumblr.com) if you want to get a status update.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks to forlorn-kumquat and polka-dot-princess

Peter is alive.

Steve nearly socks Bucky in the jaw for letting him think for even one _second—_ but Bucky grips him by what little give there is in the uniform and says, “News from the Tower is he's got less than twenty-four hours.”

Steve's knees wobble. “What?” he croaks.

Nodding, Bucky ushers him onto the Quinjet, Clint and Natasha at their backs. Steve collapses into one of the seats.

Bucky and Natasha move quickly to the cockpit and Steve is half-aware of Clint easing down into the seat next to him. “Steve,” he starts, voice thick, and Steve shakes his head.

“No, this can't— _No._ Peter _can't_ be.” He twists around and shouts forward, “I want to talk to Tony, _now_. Can we get a line to the Tower?”

“Let's get wheels up and then we'll see,” Natasha replies tersely.

Steve almost protests, but the jet rumbles to life beneath his feet and he bites his tongue.

He's all too aware of the rapid beat of his heart, the swell of panic as his mind replays Bucky's words: _News from the Tower is he's got less than twenty-four hours._

Someone jostles his arm and he starts, jerked from his thoughts. Natasha is saying, “Steve, get up here.”

He nearly trips and falls in his haste to get to the cockpit. “Hello? Tony?”

“No, sir, I'm afraid not,” JARVIS says. “Mister Stark is sleeping at the moment, I am attempting to get Miss Potts' attention so that you may speak with her instead. May I say, it is good to hear your voice, sir.”

“You too,” he replies. It's a relief to have a link to home after being cut off for so long.

“Miss Potts, Captain,” JARVIS says.

There's a brief pause and then, “ _Hello? Steve?_ ”

“Pepper— Tony's asleep? Why is he—is he okay? Hell, is he taking it that hard?” He leans forward, bracing his weight on the console. “Dammit. I should have been there, I never should have— _fuck!”_

“ _Steve. Steve, calm down, breathe,_ ” Pepper says. “ _Tony is fine. He's asleep because Rhodey slipped a a sleeping aid into his drink. He wouldn't rest and he's wildly sleep-deprived—”_

“He can't sleep when he's stressed,” Steve says, almost to himself, but Pepper makes a soft noise of acknowledgment.

“ _I know. So Bruce gave Rhodey something to put him down for a few hours because he knows he would want to be there when..._ ”

Steve's stomach turns. “So it's true,” he croaks. “Peter...Peter's dying?”

“ _I'm so sorry, Steve,”_ she whispers in reply, and that's all the confirmation he needs.

His vision goes a little hazy at the edges, the sound of the plane drifting off to a distance and he realizes he's on the verge of passing out. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he leans forward and rests his head on the edge of the console. “What the hell happened?” he asks, and this time his voice cracks.

“ _Peter took a turn.”_

“No shit.” He winces and adds, “Sorry.”

“ _Just don't make it a habit,”_ she says, and he can hear the wan smile in her voice.

“Can I—is Bruce around? Or Betty? Can I talk to someone who knows what's going on?”

“ _Of course you can. Just a moment.”_

“Fucking hell,” Clint says.

“Do you need to sit down?” Natasha asks, eyeing him critically.

“I'm fine,” he grits, knowing he shouldn't be irritated and unable to stop himself.

“Don't do this, Steve,” Natasha warns. “You need us.”

He hates that she's right, hates having them ask after his feelings when he knows they're bleeding, too. Maybe they're not hemorrhaging like he is, but they're bleeding just the same and they shouldn't have to support him. But they've been  _over_ this a thousand times and he knows he can't suffer in silence. It costs him too much. Costs  _them_ too much.

“I'm doing my best, Nat,” he manages finally and she nods. Clint puts a hand on his shoulder and Steve does what he has to to keep breathing.

“ _Uh, hi, hello, Steve?”_

“Bruce,” he says. “I'm with Bucky, Clint, and Natasha. Can you tell us what the hell's going on? What happened to Peter?”

“ _The radiation just kept increasing. It's finally tapered a little, but the human body can only take so much. As far as brain activity, it's mostly delta waves and even those are decreasing. He's deep in a vegetative state, but I don't know how much longer that will be the case.”_

“What does that mean?” Steve asks, frustrated.

“ _It means we can keep his body alive long enough for you to get home.”_

“Jesus,” Clint whispers.

“ _He's been in a coma for three days now. Betty's doing everything she can, but...it doesn't look good, Steve. I'm sorry.”_

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve can see that Natasha's knuckles have gone white on the controls. Bucky's metal hand is creaking he's clenching it so tightly.

“We'll be in New York in just over four hours,” Natasha says, the finest tremor in her voice. She blinks hard, her nose wrinkling as she gives her head a sharp shake.

“ _Good,”_ Bruce says, “ _we should all be with him when he goes.”_

Through a thick layer of fog, Steve hears Pepper come back on the phone. He hears her promise to have Tony call when he wakes. Hears her say,  _ see you soon, we'll be glad to have you home. _

He hears Clint say  _ come on, let's get out of the way _ , and feels the faint sensation of a hand on his arm, pulling him away. The rest of the flight passes in a blur, shock settled over him like a thick, heavy blanket, suffocating.

Later, he's aware of the others moving around him, but it's not until Bucky moves close and puts a hand on his shoulder that he focuses on any of them.  _ We're home _ , Bucky says, voice sounding like it's coming through water.

Steve's heart jumps sluggishly. He gets to his feet with the guidance of Bucky's hand and the four of them hurry down the ramp, Steve's feet clumsy underneath him. Pepper's waiting at the edge of the pad, shrouded by the clouds clinging to the Tower, tendrils of hair sticking to her cheeks.

She walks ahead of them, her heels clicking rapidly across the tile. She's talking, something about _support_ and _we'll leave you alone_ and _I have it covered_. The next thing Steve knows they're walking into the lab.

There are people everywhere.

Gwen, he notices, with muted surprise; Darcy who rushes over to greet Natasha and Clint with her arms wide to pull them both in; Bruce and Betty hunched over the back table; Thor and Jane with arms around one another; and facing Peter's bed, Tony.

Rhodey, standing at Tony's side, sees Steve first and puts a hand on his shoulder, speaks words Steve can't make out.

Tony turns, slowly, like Steve's watching a video at half the speed, his face sliding into a slack expression of disbelief. Their eyes meet, Tony's growing glossy, eyebrows twisting toward the bridge of his nose.

All at once everything seems to snap back on.

“Steve?” he hears him breathed, and then Tony's bolting across the room, their friends moving aside to clear a path and quietly moving for the door.

Steve manages two steps forward before Tony slams into him, their arms wrapping tight around one another.

There's a sound coming from Tony's throat, a sound like he's choking, and Steve can feel his Adam's apple working against his shoulder, his fingers digging into Steve's back. “Y-you made it,” Tony finally chokes out, and Steve can hear his damaged lungs struggling, feels a pang of anxiety that Tony's not going to be able to handle this physically. Then a wave of crippling guilt, because some of his suffering is a result of Steve leaving. Of Tony having to deal with all of this on his own.

“Tony,” he breathes, cupping the back of his neck. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I never should have—”

“Shut up, _shut up_ ,” Tony says, voice trembling, and kisses him silent. “God, I'm so glad you're home—”

Steve presses their foreheads together, feeling Tony's sharp, panting breaths wash over his skin and he grips him a little tighter. Tony's eyes are wet and it makes something inside Steve tear like tissue paper. He closes his eyes, breaths shaky and rattling, and Tony's hands curl around the nape of Steve's neck.

“Shit,” Tony breathes, misery in every syllable. 

Steve buries his face in the warm skin of Tony's neck and grips him tight.

A fine tremor starts under Tony's skin that turns to a shudder and then he's shaking, ducking his head to press his face to Steve's shoulder so the hot warmth of his silent sobs seeps through Steve's uniform. For several long minutes, they stay like that, clinging to one another.

More than ever, Steve regrets leaving.

Eventually, Tony's shaking tapers off. He leans back, red-eyed, and wipes at the shoulder of Steve's uniform with the heel of his hand. “Snot,” he explains and Steve catches his hand.

“It doesn't matter,” he says quietly. He kisses Tony's fingers. They curl in response.

“So, you did it?” Tony says, voice rough. “Saved the world?”

Steve nods. “How long since...?”

Tony grimaces. “Three days. I tried to tell you, but Coulson—”

“He did what he thought was best,” Steve says, a little bitterly, and finally brings himself to look over Tony's shoulder to the Isolation Room. A chill worms through him.

Peter has been carefully tucked into the bed, hands resting at his sides. There are IVs in both his skinny arms, and a ventilator threaded across the lower half of his face. The bed is wide enough to fit the Hulk, and it makes him look tiny. Frail.

He steps forward and Tony catches him with one hand pressed to his chest. He glances down and Steve follows his gaze to a red taped line on the floor just past where they stand.

“Can't cross it,” Tony says. “Radiation.”

Steve feels his expression fall. “This is as close as we can get?”

“Yeah,” Tony rasps.

They're almost six feet away from the glass wall. Peter's bed is another eight beyond that. Steve just wants to be close to him, to touch his face, kiss his hair. He _aches_ with it _._

Aside from all the tubes and machinery, Peter looks a little ill, but otherwise normal. It doesn't fit with the picture of death Steve has in his head, the skeletal wanness of his mother as tuberculosis slowly leeched the life out of her, the bloody, mangled corpses of the men who died during the war and the civilians he's seen die since he woke up. Honestly, Steve's sure he looked worse growing up than Peter does now. It doesn't make _sense._ If Peter's dying, shouldn't he look it?

Betty's the first to come back, followed by Bruce and then the others slowly trickle in, until they're all there. Steve accepts hugs and whispered _I'm sorrys_ and watches everyone around him drip with tears. Even Rhodey, whom he's never seen so much as get misty-eyed.

It makes his own dry eyes feel conspicuous and wrong.

Then Betty says, “It's time,” and Tony goes rigid next to Steve.

Steve's attention is torn between him and Betty. He frowns. “Time for what?” he asks.

“We're going to take Peter off life-support now,” Betty says, glancing between him and Tony.

Steve stares at her. “I don't—you mean he's not dying on his own?”

“No,” Betty says, gentle and apologetic. “He should be. Should have, I should say. Brain activity levels have been holding ever-so-slightly above brain death for the last eight hours. Peter by all accounts should be gone already. But his body's holding on. We don't know why.”

Steve flounders. “So...so he's dead, but he's not? And we're taking him off support—what, _so we can hurry him along?_ ”

Next to him, Tony flinches, but Steve doesn't understand, if Peter is still alive isn't that—aren't they giving up? How could they?

Betty shakes her head. “He should be. Will, I should say. Brain activity levels have been holding ever-so-slightly above brain death for the last eight hours. We don't know why he's still holding on to that last little bit, but he's not…really alive, Steve. We've been keeping his body going, but that's all.”

Steve feels sick.

Tony, hunched over beside him, rasps, “Keeping him like this...” His voice closes in over the rest and he shakes his head, looking exhausted and, god, aged beyond his years. “I'm sorry,” he whispers, agonized.

“Oh. I...” Steve wants to be furious, to rail against it, but they're saying Peter isn't even in there anymore and Tony looks—Tony looks broken by the horrific decision he's had to make, and Steve can't do it. He chokes back the bile churning at the back of his throat and croaks, “Okay. Yes. Then you should...unplug him.”

Tony covers his eyes with the heels of his palms, breath growing short and sharp, and it's making Steve's chest tighten in sympathetic distress.

Why did this happen? How did things come to this?

“Okay,” Betty says, pulling on the gloves to one of the silver radiation suits, and the whole room shifts, tenses. Betty's voice is calm and even as she goes on. “I'm going to stop ventilation. Peter may not immediately code. Do you want to keep him on the other support until his heart stops?”

Everyone looks to them, and Steve looks to Tony. His eyes are wide, tears trembling along his lower lashes, his skin bone white. He looks like he's been struck mute, and Steve realizes that it's his turn, that Tony's already made too many hard choices and this one is his to make. He squeezes Tony's hand and rasps, “Leave it, please.”

He glances at Tony to check, and the look of gratitude on Tony's face says more than enough. He squeezes again.

Betty nods and puts the helmet on, Bruce helping to fasten it in place. She enters through the airlocks, one at a time, and emerges on the other side of the glass, where Steve wishes he could be more than anything. Beside him, Tony's throat clicks.

Betty crosses to the bed, checking the read-outs on the machinery. Then she reaches up and presses just one switch.

For a second, it's absolutely silent, everyone in the room holding their breath.

Then the machine starts to beep, a flat monotone note. Someone sobs, but Steve's not sure who, his eyes fixed on Peter's face.

It seems to go on endlessly, Steve's entire world crumbling out from underneath him stone by stone.

Peter shifts, mouth opening, and he takes a juddering gasp.

Steve leans forward, hand clenching around Tony's and very nearly breaks his hand before he realizes and curbs his grip.

“Steve—no,” Bruce says, voice rough, and his hand ginger on Steve's shoulder. “It's not— It doesn't mean anything.”

“But—” He _saw_ it, saw him breathe with his own two eyes, how can he—

“It's just the body doing what it does,” Betty explains. “An involuntary reflex.” She sighs. “His body is breathing on its own. This means he may take longer to die, physically. Remember, he's already gone mentally.

Steve sinks back and Tony chokes out, “Fuck,” the word splintering into jagged shards.

They wait.

Betty checks the read outs again and again, does more scans, talks with JARVIS. Tony slumps against Steve, totally exhausted. He's staring blankly ahead now, eyes half-lidded.

Steve watches Peter breathe and tries to remind himself that it doesn't mean anything, that his little boy is dead.

A half an hour passes, and Bruce rubs at his forehead. Says, “Betty, you can't stay in there any longer.”

Betty makes a soft noise of frustration and says, “I know. All right, I'm coming out.”

Steve blinks at the room in shock. “Wait,” he hears Darcy say, her voice thick with congestion, “So—so that's it? W-we just _wait?_ ”

Bruce sighs. “Unfortunately, yes. There's nothing else we can do.”

They're still waiting thirty minutes later when Betty emerges from the decontamination chamber, scrubbed clean. Captain Stacy shows up at forty-seven minutes, clearly surprised to find Peter still clinging on. Gwen begs him to let her stay, but it's almost two in the morning and Betty still can't tell them how long it might be.

“Sorry,” Tony says, and the life has gone out of his voice. “You can't stay, sweetheart. We'll let you know when it happens.”

Gwen cries, protests some more, and Steve wonders about what changed while he was gone somewhere in the back of his mind. But finally, Tony and her father convince her to go.

Then Tony sits back down, and they wait.

Peter breathes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Grief, dying child, ending life-support.
> 
> please don't kill me


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm really sorry about how long these last parts are taking. thank you all so much for your comments on the last chapter, they really mean a lot and really, really helped keep me going when i got frustrated.
> 
> thank you <3

Morning comes and Peter is still hanging on.

Bruce hates it, and feels guilty for hating it, because he doesn't _want_ Peter to be dead, god, he'd give anything, _do_ anything, to bring him back, but this clinging is killing Steve and Tony.

The world has ground to a halt around them, the air heavy with waiting.

Somewhere around four AM Tony had fallen asleep. They'd brought in cots, because everyone had understood that nothing in the universe was going to pry Steve or Tony out of that room. Steve had helped lay him out on one, Tony's body limp like a rag doll.

At seven AM, JARVIS reports the weather, as always. The temperature dropped overnight and what had been rain yesterday is now snow—almost four inches of it.

Eleven AM, and Steve is still persisting despite, from what Bucky says, not having slept in almost four days. He's clearly fraying at the edges, his fingers bloodied from where he's been gnawing at them, the circles under his eyes dark and deep. The loss is doubly painful for how it's stripping Steve and Tony of their vitality. They've held a lot of bedside vigils over the years, but this is by far the worst.

Peter is just a _child_ and if not for the knot of grief sitting heavy at the back of his throat, Bruce would be helpless against the change.

He's staring at the read-outs tracking Peter's bodily functions when Bucky comes through the door, nodding at Bruce as he enters. Bruce nods wearily in return.

“Steve, you should eat,” Bucky says, holding out a plate in offering.

Steve shakes his head. “I'm not hungry.”

“I didn't ask if you were hungry,” Bucky says, perfectly steady.

“I said I'm not hungry!” Steve snaps. “Just leave me alone, Buck!”

“No,” Bucky fires back instantly. “I'm not going fucking anywhere, Steve. I'm not going to let you put yourself in the shitter. You have to eat.” He sets the tray down with a loud clatter and both of their gazes jump to where Tony is curled up. He shifts, but doesn't wake and Steve turns a glare on Bucky. “I'll be back in an hour,” Bucky says and jabs a finger at the tray. “It had better be gone.”

Bruce is distracted from whatever comes after that by an alert. He reads it and frowns.

The radiation output in Peter's room has gone down.

He checks the Geiger counter manually to be sure and has JARVIS double-check, but that just confirms it. Peter's vitals and brain waves are reading the same, but the radiation has started to slide downward.

Everything happening here is a scientific atrocity and it makes Bruce's blood boil. He loathes that he can't make any predictions, since everything he knows has been turned upside down.

Peter should be dead, but he's not. Radiation shouldn't go up and then back down, but it has.

What a nightmare.

Steve picks at the food on the plate. Bruce keeps one eye on him and goes back to analyzing the read-outs. JARVIS has forwarded him an email from Hank in reply to Tony's plea for help. He has a theory about the Erskine serum and how it's interacted with Scabel's.

Just after noon, Steve drops off, head drooping forward onto his chest. “Finally,” Darcy breathes. They don't dare move him and risk waking him up. His neck will be killing him, but at least he'll have gotten some rest.

Not long after that, Tony wakes, sluggish and confused. He's struggling to push himself upright when his memory kicks in and his his eyes go wide, breaths coming in sharp, panicky bursts. “Peter!” he blurts, scrambling around, and Bruce rushes over to catch him by the shoulder. “Tony— Tony, it's okay, he didn't—you didn't. Miss it.”

Tony looks relieved and freshly devastated all at once, his expression crumpling. He buries his face in his hands.

~

Gwen goes straight to the Tower after school the day after Peter's supposed to die.

Darcy has been texting her updates, but they mostly consist of _Peter's still hanging in there._

The fact that Peter's dying has finally stopped her dad from trying to get her to quit spending time with him, but last night as he tucked her in, he'd said, “Your involvement with him was going to get you hurt, anyway.”

Gwen hasn't spoken to him since.

It makes her so angry that for a minute, she completely understands why Peter did what he did. She still thinks it was _stupid_ , but she can see the temptation.

When she arrives, JARVIS doesn't even make her wait in the lobby the way he normally does. He merely says, “Welcome, Miss Stacy,” and the elevator doors slide open for her.

Once in the MedBay she can hear a couple of hushed voices from behind the curtains pulled around some of the beds that line the main hall. She approaches the door to the room where Peter is, chewing on her lip.

His Uncle Clint is sitting on one of the lab tables inside, and both of his dads are standing over his Aunt Betty at the back of the room. They look older than they did last week. Everyone does.

It reminds Gwen of the funerals she's been to with her dad. There've only been two, and only one where she was personally acquainted with the person who'd died, but the faces are the same. She's only seen women who looked the way Peter's dads do now though, hurting, lost, like they don't know how to exist anymore. It's scary and reassuring all at once. She feels a little lost herself.

 _This is what my dad would look like if something happened to me_ , she thinks, and almost feels bad about getting angry.

~

Clint retreats to the vents and watches while Bruce supervises Peter's move. He's apparently not radioactive anymore, and they're clearing him out so they can decontaminate the room. From now on he'll be in one of the nice recovery rooms, with the windows and all the amenities. Thank fuck, Clint's so sick of that goddamned windowless lab.

He's been keeping an eye on the news and it seems like every time he turns it on they're talking about Peter, what's happened to Peter. There'd been one memorable interview with a snippy Johnny Storm who'd wound up getting pissed off about all their questions about the Avengers conspicuous absence and what it had to do with Peter, and asked if they wanted to report the news or creep on a teenaged kid.

Clint's always liked the guy, but he liked him a hell of a lot more after that.

Everything's all out of whack since they got back from the job in Finland and he's having a tough time adapting to it. The Tower doesn't _sound_ the same without Peter and Clint's turned off his aid more than a few times just so he can sit and pretend for five seconds that everything hasn't gone to shit, for all the good it does.

Grief clings to everything, because their every ritual, every _day_ has revolved around Peter. When's Peter going to school, how long is Peter supposed to be gone, who's picking Peter up, is someone taking Peter to that science thing, what movie are we watching with Peter this week, on and on, every facet of their lives affected by Peter and now that's just a giant _void._

They're a bunch of purposeful people suddenly without a purpose.

They're a wreck.

~

Time slips past Tony like a stream around a rock. He manages to slow down the flow sometimes, to get a better grip. He gets excited, manages to keep his attention for a handful of hours when Bruce tells them that Peter's brain activity has been fluctuating. Bruce insists that it doesn't mean anything, but Tony squeezes Steve's hand and Steve squeezes back and for a few hours it doesn't feel like the weight of the world is bearing down on him.

But Peter's brain waves continue to fluctuate and he never stirs and that hope slips away.

Steve sits at Peter's bedside night and day, hardly moves at all. If he shifts it's to go from staring at Peter's lax features, fingers gingerly stroking his arm, to hunching over his clasped hands praying, sometimes in silence, sometimes in a desperate, fervent whisper.

He's doing that now, lips barely moving, words impossible to make out. Tony doesn't know what to do. He's exhausted every other option. Maybe...

“Can I— I want to—” Tony's grief-roughened voice fails him and he gestures at Steve's hands, folded together so tightly the tendons on the backs of his hands stand out in sharp relief.

Steve looks at him, eyes red-rimmed and shadowed, and nods, unwinds his hands to beckon Tony forward.

Swallowing hard, he edges a chair closer, angled to face Steve and sits in it, gratefully taking Steve's hands when he reaches out. They lock together and Tony bows forward, the way he's seen Steve do. Steve presses their foreheads together.

“How do I...?” Tony whispers.

“Just ask.”

Tony closes his eyes and prays.

~

Steve genuinely has no idea how long he's been sitting in Peter's room gazing blankly at his face—days, maybe. Gwen has been in and out. He's not sure if that's on different days, or just over hours. Doesn't really care. He doesn't care about anything, can't make himself think about anything but Peter and the gaping hole sitting in his chest.

Thor sits down in the empty chair at one point, his normally jovial face somber.

Steve can't bring himself to say anything, so he merely nods. Thor nods back and his blue eyes immediately take on a sheen, pinking around the edges so that the color becomes electric, unreal. Steve straightens and the part of him that is Captain America stirs. "Thor?" he questions, his voice hoarse from strain and disuse.

A single tear glides down Thor's cheek and vanishes into the blond hairs of his mustache. Steve's heart throbs too hard, afraid.

"What—" he says and watches as another streaks from the other eye and slips into the lines carved by Thor's smiles.

Thor doesn't respond at first, looking to Peter and bending forward over his clasped hands in a sort of bow. When he leans back, he sniffles and returns the intensity of his gaze to Steve. He says quietly, "I come to weep openly, so that you may feel no shame in it."

And it feels like Steve's heart catches in his throat, tearing with finely honed blades. He looks away, presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and croaks, "I can't."

"It—is unwise to deny such powerful emotions," Thor says, his voice hitching slightly and it rips a little more of Steve's self control away. "Your child is gravely ill, no one would fault you for a moment of unbounded grief."

Steve's throat constricts so tightly it feels like the skin has broken and the backs of his eyes burn, filling with heat. " _No_ ,"he says and sounds broken even to his own ears, "I _can't_."

Steve can't cry, he can't, because if he looses even one tear then it will be like he's given up on Peter and he can't. He hasn't and he won't. Peter is still here, still holding on, and Steve doesn't care if it's irrational, _he will not cry_. As long as he keeps it together, Peter will stay.

So he screws up his face and swallows hard and forces back the bladed lump of his heart, feels it settle into his chest again, sharp and aching with hope.

And maybe Thor doesn't understand, but that's okay. Thor can cry for him, for the part of him that's shriveled and dying. Steve sniffs, blinks stinging, tired eyes and watches Peter's face as Thor sits beside him, a steady stream of tears trickling down his cheeks.

Later when Thor has gone, Natasha slips in.

She does the same thing she's done every time—stands at the back of the room and stares at Peter like she can will him awake. Every time, Steve feels a twinge of hope that it might work. He's seen her work miracles, why not this one?

~

“Fury sent me to speak with you.” Pepper looks between the two of them.

Tony stares at her, sullen. “Because he knows we'd have already kicked anyone else out.”

She nods in acknowledgment. “That doesn't make what I'm here to say any less important.”

“I don't want to hear it,” Steve says, jaw tense.

“Be that as it may,” Pepper says, “you need to. Peter is not showing any signs of improving—”

“He stopped being radioactive!” Tony points out.

Pepper gives him a look. “And that was nearly a week ago. You two can't keep doing this forever. You can't continue to hold a twenty-four hour bedside vigil. You haven't bathed in four days, and while, Tony, that's not completely unheard of from you, Steve? Those are the same pants you've been wearing since _Sunday.”_

Steve glares at her, hands locked in front of his now-bearded face. “I think they call this grief.”

“Except _you're not grieving_ ,” Pepper says. “You're in _limbo._ Believe me, I know how terrible—”

“You don't know shit,” Tony snarls and Pepper's quiet for a few seconds, her eyes taking on a bright sheen.

“No,” she concedes at last, “I don't, not really. But I know you have to accept that this is your new normal. You can't stay here all day, every day. He may never wake up.” Tony opens his mouth, lips pulled back in a nasty expression and she hurries to add, “I'm not going to make you do anything. I just think you should know, there are people here who love you and while I know Peter is a huge part of your lives, he's not the only part. So just. Think about that. Think about what he would want you to do.”

She nods, almost to herself, and then leaves them, sitting together alone at Peter's bedside.

“It feels like giving up,” Steve whispers after a long time. Tony curls into his side. “But we wouldn't,” Steve goes on. “We couldn't. Not ever. Even if...”

“Never,” Tony says viciously.

Steve swallows and traces the line of Peter's profile with his eyes for the millionth time. He hates to imagine the disappointment in Peter's eyes if he could see them. If he knew they'd turned down calls.

Maybe Pepper's right.

~

They hold hands.

Steve kisses Peter's forehead, brushing back his hair, and Tony follows suit, pressing his forehead to Peter's for a moment in a way that makes Steve's eyes sting. They tell him they love him, and vow that they're not giving up. Tony cries, tears tracking down his cheeks, silent and relentless.

And then they retreat.

Steve feels like a part of him is breaking off, being left behind, and he treasures the sharp edges of it, holds on and feels them dig in, because that means he's left a part of himself with Peter.

They go upstairs to the penthouse for the first time in nearly two weeks and shower and shave. After, Steve runs the pad of his thumb over the clean, sharp line of Tony's goatee, Tony's fingers caressing his own smooth jaw.

Peter's backpack is sitting next to the kitchen table and Tony breaks down again when he sees it. Steve wraps himself around him and they sit on the floor there for nearly an hour, rocking together.

“I guess I'll...go to the workshop,” Tony says eventually. It sounds like the last thing he wants to do.

Steve thinks and says, finally, “I should go talk to Fury.”

“Yeah,” Tony says.

It's a while longer before either of them gets up.

~

Going back to their routine is like trying to build a car when the engine's missing.

Tony knows it can be done, but what's the point?

He tries anyway, because Steve's trying. Because if Peter did all this wanting to be an Avenger, to do some good, then he owes it to him to do whatever good he can and the best way Tony knows how to do that is to keep at what he does best.

Sam suggests they fit Peter into their lives where they would have before. It seems like as good an idea as any, and an iota less painful than enduring the blow every time they automatically make space for him. So they visit him in the mornings before school and in the evenings after work and they tell him about their days. They talk about how much they miss him.

Steve is withdrawn, easy to anger, like he was in the early days—at least according to Darcy.

Neither of them can be trusted with real work, so Steve spends his days mostly doing paperwork and training recruits. Tony tinkers in the workshop and fields questions from the press about Australia, about Peter, about SI and the dip the stocks have taken in the wake of all the tragedy. When the questions about how he's holding up get to be too much, Pepper cuts in, reminding them that _she_ has been the CEO for decades now and while Tony's affairs certainly have an effect on the company they will not affect any of SI's current projects.

Every day is a struggle, but by the time the second week of the coma draws to a close it feels like they might be starting to get into a fumbling routine.

Then one afternoon Tony's lying on his back under a prototype with a wrench in hand and a screwdriver between his teeth when JARVIS says, voice urgent, “Sir, there has been a change in Peter's brain activity.”

For a second, Tony's heart stops completely.

“I thought at first it was just a minor anomaly,” JARVIS goes on, “but it has continued to steadily increase all morning. Peter is approaching activity levels which indicate consciousness.”

His heart slingshots into his throat and Tony claws his way out from under the prototype, dropping the screwdriver. “Where's Steve?” he demands.

“He is at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters training new recruits—”

“Get him on the phone, now!” He throws the wrench into a tool box and races into the bathroom to scrub up. No way in hell he's going up there filthy as he is and risking compromising Peter.

“I believe he has turned his phone off—”

“Then turn it on!” Tony shouts, scrubbing furiously at his arms.

“Yes, sir.”

He's busy rinsing off the lather when Steve's voice comes out of the speakers, voice sharp with worry, “ _Tony, what is it? Are you all right?_ ”

“Peter's brain activity's changed, JARVIS thinks he's waking up. It might not mean anything, but then again...”

Steve's breath catches. “ _I'll be there in fifteen minutes_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** grief


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AT LONG LAST WE HAVE REACHED THE CONCLUSION OF OUR STORY, DEAR FRIENDS.
> 
> Thank you all so much for your patience and support.
> 
> Jenny, beloved, Happy (belated) Christmas. I love you.

Tony scrubs until his skin is pink and raw, heart pounding against the arc reactor like it's trying to beat it out. He shucks his dirty clothes and yanks on a fresh pair of jeans and a t-shirt before racing for the elevator, shoes in hand.

He crams them on as the elevator rockets up to the MedBay. Something somewhere between terror and anticipation is thrumming under his skin and he can't hold his hands still to save his life.

Bruce, looking disheveled and breathless, is exiting the other elevator when he gets off. “Go, go!” Tony says and Bruce jogs ahead of him, his hastily-pulled-on lab coat flapping.

Betty's waiting for them, her eyes bright with excitement. “He's definitely coming to,” she says.

“You're sure?” Bruce says before Tony can. She nods.

“Positive.”

 _“Tony,”_ Bruce says, grabbing hold of his hand and Tony nods a little dumbly.

“Yeah. Yeah, can I...?” He gestures at the room.

“Yes, go on, he's still clean.”

Tony swallows down a sudden swarm of butterflies and goes in, eyes fixed on Peter's face. Maybe it's just his imagination, but he thinks he sees him shift minutely. He crosses over to the bed and takes Peter's hand, squeezing it. “Hey, Bambi, it's me. Come on back to us, okay, buddy? We miss you.”

Over the last couple weeks, he's gotten way more comfortable talking to this still and silent iteration of his kid than he thinks is fair, or probably even healthy.

God, he'd give anything to hear Peter back-talking him again.

“Tony?” he hears, yelled from the elevator, and he turns, sees Steve burst through the door, his hair disheveled and a thin sheen of sweat at his temples and on his neck. His wrists are even still taped.

Tony reaches out to grab his outstretched hand and tilts his face up to accept the brief kiss Steve offers, even as his eyes are raking over Peter. “Is he—”

“Not awake yet,” Tony says, squeezing his hand, “but getting there.”

Steve looks at him, blue eyes huge and desperate for reassurance. “Really?”

“Betty promised,” Tony tells him and leans into Steve's shoulder as his throat works, his chin trembling.

He closes his eyes and whispers, “Please, God, please, give him back.”

The two of them sit down, one on either side of the bed, one holding Peter’s right hand and one holding his left hand, and they wait.

The other Avengers stop by, offering well-wishes and prayers and cups of coffee, in Darcy's case. Night settles outside the Tower. Tony fiddles with the display by Peter's bed while Steve stares at his fingers, still intertwined with Peter's. They've been there for nearly three hours when it happens.

Through the window of the transparent display, Tony sees Peter's eyelashes flutter and he barely registers it because they've been doing it all day in bursts.

Except this time, they flutter and inch open.

Tony's breath catches. “Steve,” he whispers. “Steve!”

Steve's head snaps up and his gaze darts around, bewildered for a second before he looks to Peter's face. He leans forward, a raw, desperate kind of hope overtaking his expression. “Please, come on. That's it.”

“Peter?” Tony says cautiously, watching the sliver of brown between his eyelashes slide one way and then the other. Just the sight of it is enough to form a lump in his throat.

Peter doesn't speak, doesn't even seem to realize they're there.

It sours Tony’s joy somewhat.

Bruce hurries in, no doubt alerted by JARVIS, and shuffles Tony out of the way, leaning over Peter to shine a penlight in each of his eyes. Peter grimaces slightly and turns away from it. “Peter? Can you hear me?” Bruce asks. “If you can hear me, squeeze your father's hand.”

Both Tony and Steve shake their heads a moment later.

Tony's stomach sinks as Peter's eyelashes flutter again and then settle closed. “What's wrong?” he asks. “Is it his brain? Why didn't he respond?”

“He may not have the ability to yet, Tony. Coma patients aren't like the ones in fairy tales. It takes time for the brain to reboot.”

“So he still might?” Steve asks.

“Yes,” Bruce replies. “It will take time to find out how this ordeal has affected him. It may change everything, or nothing. We just have to wait and see.”

“Wait and see,” Tony mumbles. “Sure. Been there, done that, got the app. What's a little more?”

~

They fall asleep in the chairs next to Peter's bed, but when they try to get away with it again the next night, Bruce shakes his head. “Oh no. Out. Go. You're not gonna start sleeping down here again. This is going to take time, you need real rest. Go.”

So they go back to spending every non-working, non-sleeping moment in Peter's room, talking to him and guiding his body through the exercises Betty and the physical therapist have taught them to help keep his muscles from wasting away with increased dedication. Betty advises them to set up a calendar within Peter's line of sight to help orient him when he wakes, and Tony winds up spending an entire afternoon setting up a screen that faces Peter's bed at just the right angle with the date displayed in huge block letters.

According to Betty, Peter's prognosis seems promising, but Steve's having trouble believing it when all Peter's done is open his eyes a few times and stare hazily up at the ceiling.

Steve worries about Peter's recovery, he worries about what the ordeal has done to Tony, he worries about how they're going to deal with this once it's all over. Because it comes down to the fact that Peter felt so ignored that he went out and did something absolutely _nuts._

How are they going to earn back that trust? And how the hell are they going to grant Peter the leniency he obviously needs after everything they’ve been through?

His worry is made worse by the fact that as hard as he tries not to, Steve can't help the way he almost...dreads Peter waking up. What if Bruce and Betty are right? What if his brain has been damaged beyond repair? His body? What are they going to do if the Peter who wakes up isn't the Peter they've always known?

Then he feels terrible, because of course they'll love him and care for him no matter what, but he feels that fear just the same.

Bruce says he spoke once, but Steve wants to see for himself.

Then one morning they're visiting and Steve, absently tracing letters on Peter's palm, hears, harsh and crackling, “Dads?”

He and Tony both lean forward at once. Steve reaches out, hand cupping Peter's face. His eyes are open, and Steve watches as his tongue slips out, wetting dry lips. Peter blinks, a little dazed. Then his eyes slide over, and focus.

“Dad?” he repeats and Tony breathes, “Yeah, buddy, we're here, hey. Hey.” There are tears in the corners of Tony's eyes.

Peter's forehead wrinkles, the hand Steve is holding curling just a little bit tighter. “Wh'appened?” he mumbles and everything hits Steve all at once, a building coming down around his ears.

His baby, the little boy he'd never let himself even imagine having, almost _died._ They'd come a hair's breadth away from losing him and when that hadn't happened, they'd been sure that even if he did survive, he'd never be the boy he was before.

A low, rough noise wrenches free of Steve's throat and he hears Peter say, bewildered, “Dad?”

Peter knows them. He's going to live and he _knows them_.

That's what undoes Steve. His chest heaves as emotion overwhelms him. He sounds like a wounded animal, out of control.

“Steve?” Tony says, alarm creeping into his voice, but Steve can't stop. He puts his head down to hide his face, unable to hold it together anymore. His face contorts as he and cries and cries and cries. Every tear he held back before out of sheer willpower crashes down over him, rushing out in a flood, all the terror and hopelessness and absolute despair rolling through him again, blanketed by all-consuming, sweet relief.

He shudders with it, going easily when Tony's hands pry him up from the bed and pull him in close. “Shh, shh, hey,” Tony breathes. “You don't have to— Jesus, Steve.”

Then for awhile there's nothing but the feeling of his chest heaving in and out, tears tracking down his cheeks until they feel like they're on fire, hot and stinging and raw. He gasps for air between sobs, gripping Tony tight because it feels like if he doesn't he'll break apart. His head feels swollen and too small all at once.

When the tidal wave of emotion finally passes, he can't breathe through his nose. He's exhausted, head lying heavy on Tony's shoulder.

Peter's going to be okay.

~

At first, Peter has difficulty with more complex words.

He knows what he wants to say, just not how to say it. He asks for “the clear, wet drink” rather than water, and tells them his “bends” ache instead of his joints. It's frustrating. Aunt Betty says it's normal and his brain will sort everything out eventually, though she can't tell him when “eventually” is.

It's also a little scary, considering he can't remember what happened to him or why there's a month-long gap in his memory.

“But he will remember,” Tony says, his hand gripped around Steve's so tight the tendons stand out on the back of his hand. He looks tired and his eyes are red like he's been crying recently. They both look like that, almost all the time since Peter woke up, and it makes him afraid to find out what happened to him.

“There's no way to know for certain, but since he didn't suffer any physical trauma, I think it's very likely,” Betty assures them. “It will take time though, maybe months.”

But it doesn't. By the end of the week, Peter remembers everything.

Everything up until he got really sick anyway.

He remembers Gwen telling his dads about what he'd done and fighting with them; he remembers being angry at everyone. Betty tells him about everything else, about where he got the wounds on his wrists, about how he'd become radioactive, and about how he'd slipped into a coma. He missed Valentine's Day and his birthday's only three weeks away. It's hard to wrap his head around.

When he's able to stay awake more than twenty minutes at a time, all his aunts and uncles come and sit by his bed and kiss him and cry—all of them. _Every single one_ sits by his bed and cries. Clint blinks a lot and tries to look like he's not, Natasha holds his hand and keeps her eyes down, stiffer than Peter's ever seen her. Thor and Darcy and Jane all cry openly, smiling through their tears. Bruce tries hard to stop himself, and retreats to the corner when he can't get it under control. Peter never sees Pepper cry, but her eyes are red and wet when she visits.

It's not until after all that, after seeing his family like that, that Peter really understands what two weeks in a coma really means.

Gwen is the last to stop by. She lingers in the doorway, twisting the fringe of her scarf around her fingers. “Hi, Peter,” she says, quiet.

“Hi.”

She shifts from foot to foot. “They...said your memories have come back.”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees.

There's nothing there, but she moves like she's tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “And are you...are you still mad at me?”

Her eyes and nose are turning red, eyes going glossy.

Peter looks down at his hands and admits, “Kinda.”

Gwen takes a soft, hitching breath.

He looks back up at her. “But I understand why you did it.”

Gwen's chin wobbles and she moves quickly across the room, pulling him into a hug. “I'm so glad you're okay, Peter. You were so _stupid_ and I was so scared. I'm just so happy you're okay.” She buries her face in his neck and cries. When she finally pulls back, Peter's falling asleep.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, clumsily running his fingers through her hair. “Had to do it.”

Gwen shakes her head, her face blotchy and damp, but she squeezes his hand. She looks haggard.

Everyone looks haggard when they look at him, but his dads most of all.

It scares him a little, because Steve keeps tearing up when he looks at him. Peter's seen him cry before once or twice, but there's something about the way it comes out of the blue, like it swamps Steve and he can't help it, that makes this so much worse.

His dads are always there when he wakes up, helping push him through his recovery exercises, even when he doesn't want to do them. After everything his body went through and two weeks in a coma, his muscles have atrophied. He's tired all the time and sleeps more than he doesn't.

But when he's awake, no matter when it is, one of his dads is always there. Peter doesn't know what to say to them—or if he even wants to say anything. He thinks he might still be angry. So he just...doesn't.

Eventually, he starts to spend more time awake than asleep, and his dads have to work. When they're not around, Peter notices one of his other family members is—no matter what the time.

He's never alone.

~

Peter quickly realizes something is strange.

The first time he's allowed to try solid foods, the spoon sticks to his hand. He spends a full minute staring at it, stuck to his index and middle fingers. It looks almost as if his fingers have magnetized. He shakes his hand, but the spoon doesn't budge.

“Uhh...Uncle Bruce?” he says and gets the attention of his dads and his uncle. He turns his hand to face them. “This is kinda weird, right?” He shakes it.

Uncle Bruce frowns. Within fifteen minutes they've got a microscope and they're peering at his hand, fussing with the spoon and trying to remove it. It's been stuck for almost a half an hour when Peter flexes his hand just so and the thing drops to the bed.

“Fascinating,” Bruce murmurs and takes Peter’s hand, touching his own palm to it. This time, Peter can feel the slight crawl across his skin as it adheres.

“Whoa. I can feel that.” He moves his hand and Bruce stares in surprise as his own moves with it.

“Feel what?” he asks.

“It's like...like the feeling you get when air brushes over your skin.” Peter concentrates, flexes the muscles, and feels the same slight creeping sensation. He takes his hand away easily. He looks up at Bruce and then at his dads, grinning. “It's like super-gripping action. I can stick to metal and skin, I wonder what else?”

Tony hauls in boxes of stuff, handing things to him one by one. Peter can stick to all of it.

“It's just like the mechanism that spiders use to stick to surfaces,” Bruce explains later. “There are microscopic hairs on your skin that cling to virtually any material.”

His dads exchange a heavy look, but Peter can barely contain his excitement. It worked. The serum Scabel created _worked._ He smothers a delighted laugh.

“Obviously, this is traceable back to Scabel's serum,” Bruce says grudgingly when they've been at it for an hour. “The only thing is, I'm not sure it would have worked on anyone else. Peter's always been a little bit more 'super' than your typical child, and what his body went through over the last month? It would have killed anyone else. So maybe Scabel was on to something here, but without the springboard of the original serum in Peter's blood to build off of, it's just another vial of poison.”

“Speaking of which,” Tony says, turning on his heel to face the bed. “Peter, I love you. I am thrilled beyond reason that you aren't dead, or paralyzed, or brain dead, or one of a million other horrifying things I've been imagining.”

Peter's stomach slides to his toes. “But,” he says in a small voice.

“But,” Tony confirms, head tilting forward. “You are grounded. For a _month.”_ His eyes grow a little brighter, his mouth trembling with the ferocity of his expression. “No TV, no music, no lab, no Gwen, no JARVIS, no trips to Jersey with Johnny Storm, are you getting the picture?”

Peter sinks down in the bed, wishes it would swallow him whole. “No fun of any kind.”

“Exactly,” Tony bites out. “And do you get _why?”_

Peter swallows and glances at Steve who's watching him with his arms crossed, grim and unsympathetic.

Tony's eyes flash. Not literally, but it's a close thing. “Because,” he goes on, “you lied to us, you went behind our _backs,_ you endangered not only yourself, but everyone in the goddamn Tower. If you'd become radioactive but not sick?? It would have been devastating. People would have died. I thought you were a responsible kid. A model fucking teenager, but then you go and do what basically amounts to _buying drugs_. Your father and I thought we'd _lost_ you—”

“Tony,” Steve says and touches his arm.

Peter flounders, guilty and frustrated. “I just wanted to—”

“You just wanted to feed your own ego!” Tony snarls. “You didn't give two seconds thought to what might happen—what it would do to us if something happened to you!”

Peter's arguments wither and die in his throat. He...hadn't. His dads have been clingy and teary since he woke up and they tell him he almost died and, wow, he'd bought into his own propaganda of being the good kid and totally blown it. He stares down at his hands and whispers, “I'm sorry.”

Tony sighs, long and sad.

“Thank you,” Steve says quietly. He moves closer, deliberately uncrossing his arms. “Peter...we want you to have everything that you want. We really do. But there's so much you don't know yet, and I know you feel invincible, but...it scares us that you thought this was what you had to do.”

“I get that you want this. I do,” Tony says, pressing his palms together. Then he folds forward, says quietly, “It hurts that you didn't come to me.”

“You guys never listened when I brought it up!” Peter bursts and winces, expecting retribution.

Instead, Tony takes a shaky breath. “Okay, that's fair.”

Peter blinks at him. “It is?”

Steve grimaces. It looks like it pains him to say it, but he agrees. “We brushed aside your concerns when we shouldn't have. We should have taken you more seriously—tried to give you other options. You did this because you felt you had no other choice, am I right?”

Peter picks at the blanket and shrugs one shoulder. “Yeah, I guess.”

“So we've all got things to work on,” Tony says.

“But I'm still grounded?” Peter asks even though he knows the answer.

“Absolutely,” Steve says. “You broke a whole slew of rules. You break the rules, you do the time.”

Peter sighs. “Yeah. I guess that's to be expected.”

“You want to grow up, you have to deal with the consequences like a grown up. Tony shrugs. He fiddles with the blanket by Peter's leg. “We love you.”

Peter rolls his eyes, but fondly. “Yeah, Dad, I love you, too.”

“Now cough up the phone,” Tony says, rolling his shoulders back and waving his hand in a gimme gesture. “I know Darcy smuggled it in this morning.”

With a groan, Peter pulls the phone out from under the blankets. “Can I at least tell Gwen I'm grounded?”

“Yep, first thing Tuesday morning when you go back to school.”

~

Gwen shows up in the door to his room the next afternoon and Peter stares. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, nice,” Gwen says.

Peter blushes. “I didn't— I just meant— I'm grounded, you shouldn't be able to get into the Tower. Dad wouldn't even let me text you.”

Dismissively, Gwen says, “Oh, that,” and moves to join him in the sitting area, slinging her bag onto a chair.

“She's been cleared,” Darcy says loftily from the corner where she's flipping through a magazine. She's Peter's minder for today.

Peter gives them both a dubious look, “My dads okayed this? _Both_ of them?”

“They did,” Gwen says, and reaches into her bag, pulling out a stack of papers. “I'm here to get you started on your homework backlog.”

“Ah.” Peter slumps back in his chair. “That sounds like Steve all right.”

“Tony's the one who asked me to bring it over,” Gwen says as she digs around in her bag.

Peter's noticed that things are different between her and his dad since he woke up, but that's— _what?_ “Tony,” he echoes. “Tony Stark. My dad. About yea high, dorky goatee?”

“Yep,” Gwen says, popping the p.

“Okay, I noticed there was a lot less tension, but he called you? And he just—let you in, even though I'm grounded?”

Gwen shrugs. “Bonds forged in adversity and whatnot. We worried about you.” She gives him a pointed look. “With good reason.”

“No,” Peter says, shaking his head with dawning horror. “You guys can't team up on me.”

Gwen just smiles sweetly and pulls her bag back onto her shoulder. “I'll see you in school on Tuesday.”

She waves as she heads back out and Peter sighs. Being grounded is terrible.

He pulls up a monitor from the side of the chair and drags his homework over to get started. He's got a lot to catch up on.

“What are you doing?” Darcy asks. “You know you're not supposed to be using the opaque monitors.”

Peter huffs and rolls his eyes. “I'm just Googling some stuff for my homework. I'm not allowed to ask JARVIS.”

“Yeah, and you're still not allowed to be using an opaque monitor. You know that, Peter. Put it back.”

“Oh, come on!” Peter complains. “You can even come look, you're being ridiculous—”

“Ridiculous?” Darcy echoes incredulously. _“Ridiculous?”_ She slaps the power button on the monitor and it goes blank. Peter makes a noise of outrage, but his annoyance dwindles when he sees the fury on her face. “No,” she snaps, “you want to know what's ridiculous? What's ridiculous is you ignoring the fact that you have been banned from stuff as a _consequence_ of the terrible thing you did. Peter, do you still not _get it?”_

“I get it!” Peter yells, defensive. “I'm being punished, okay, I got that loud and clear! I just don't see why you can't just look at the screen and see I'm not doing anything wrong!”

“Because you were told _not to_ ,” she shouts. “You broke our trust! You want to be treated like an adult? Well, welcome to adulthood, mister! There are consequences when you do shit like this! If you can't be trusted to do something simple like stick to transparent displays, how the hell do you expect us to trust you with bigger things? _This_ is why we're babysitting you like a little kid! You want to be an Avenger? You want to protect your dads? How are you going to do that if they can't trust you to do as they ask, no matter how small the request, no matter whether you like it or not?”

Peter steps back. That's not...that's not how he'd looked at it.

“But— I would,” he insists. “To keep them safe I'd do anything—”

“Except you _didn't,”_ Darcy says, her lips pinched and white. “You did what you wanted to do, and you nearly destroyed them. You hurt them. You hurt all of us. God, Peter,” she says, and he swallows at the way her voice breaks. “We thought you were dead. Your dads planned your funeral—they picked out a coffin for you! Can you not see how much pain you caused?”

“But I didn't mean to,” he says, voice small even to his own ears. “I just wanted to help.”

“Well, you went about it in a shitty way and you hurt us. You can't go back now. You broke our trust because you want to be an adult, and now you have to deal with that like an adult. We love you, Peter. We do. And we always will, but right now we can't trust you. You're going to have to earn that trust back. You want responsibility? Well, here it is.” The tears in her eyes are starting to spill over and she dashes them away. “JARVIS, take over will you? Clint will be up in an hour, but I— I can't right now. You know the rules. No commands from Peter.”

“Certainly, Miss Lewis,” JARVIS murmurs.

She nods sharply and then turns and storms out.

Peter sinks into the nearest chair and buries his hands in his hair.

~

“Where's Darce?” Clint asks when he sees Peter is alone, hunched over his books.

“I'm afraid she and Peter had a...confrontation,” JARVIS replies. “She became emotional and excused herself.”

“Uh oh,” Clint mutters and moves inside. “Hey, Pete. What's up?”

Without even looking up, Peter mumbles, “I'm doing homework.” Then he seems to rethink his reply and he adds hurriedly, “I didn't do anything I wasn't supposed to. You can ask JARVIS.”

“I believe you.”

Miserable, Peter mutters, “You shouldn't.”

“You're right, I shouldn't.” Peter winces as Clint sits down in the chair opposite him, tilting it back onto two legs.

Peter stops pretending to keep writing all together, his pencil tapping against the tabletop. “I messed up.”

“Sure did. But it sounds like you're starting to take responsibility for it.”

He digs his fingers into his hair, and glances up at Clint, stricken. “I don't know how I'm ever gonna make it up to everyone. To my dads.”

Clint resists the urge to try and soften the blow just because it's so good to see Peter here, alive. It wouldn't be the truth and it'll only hurt Peter more in the long run. “You're not gonna be able to,” he says. “Some things you can't undo.”

Peter flinches. “So...you guys aren't ever gonna trust me again, are you. You're always gonna wonder.”

“After awhile we'll believe you more often than not, but it's never gonna be the same, no. That luxury is gone.”

Peter sniffles, blinks back tears. “I'm sorry,” he chokes, and Clint lets the chair drop back down onto all fours.

He pulls Peter into a hug, hooking his chin over the top of his head. “Yeah, kid,” he sighs. “I know you are. Just remember you got a family who loves you and wants what's best for you. And it wasn't entirely your fault.”

Peter breathes out shakily, warming a spot on the front of Clint's shirt. “What happened to him anyway?”

“He got disappeared,” Clint tells him matter-of-factly. “S.H.I.E.L.D. took care of it. He wasn't trying to hide what he was doing—Oscorp was even supporting his research. They claim they didn't know about the testing, but their stock's taken an even worse hit than SI did after the explosions.”

Peter pulls back, eyes wide. “I forgot all about that.”

Clint pats his shoulder. “The company's recovering and your dad's making reparations. He's doing everything he can.”

Peter drops his head onto Clint's collarbone again—ow. “And I made everything worse.”

Clint smirks. “You get that from your dad.”

~

Since he's grounded, Peter isn't allowed to have a party for his birthday. Tonight they'll be having a quiet family dinner, but Steve says he promised Tony they'd go to Chirelli's, so after Peter gets out of school, they go to pick up his cake.

He's been grounded for two weeks already and that doesn't even count the two and a half he spent recovering after he woke up, so it's been almost two months since the last time Peter was anywhere that wasn't school or the Tower. He's brimming with energy and he can't stop himself from bouncing around them, ducking and dodging around the other pedestrians. Tony's laughing at him.

“I think maybe we need to swap out the cake for something sugar free, Steve,” he says and Steve grins.

Peter spins around and jumps up, hooking his arms around Steve's neck. “You got chocolate, right, with butter cream frosting? I'm drooling just thinking about it.”

“Yes,” Steve says, voice brimming with amusement, “we got chocolate with butter cream frosting, just like you asked.” Then, exasperated, “Peter, come on, you're too old for this!” as Peter pushes himself up and presses Steve's shoulders down so he can roll over his head to land on his feet on the sidewalk in front of him. Tony's clutching Steve's arm because he's giggling so hard he can't walk straight.

“Oh, man, I can't wait,” Peter says, skipping backwards in front of them. “Can we—”

Someone lays on the horn, one long blast. Tires squeal and all at once Peter sees a red sedan jump the curb, just to Steve's right. An alarming tingling sensation spikes up the back of Peter’s neck into the base of his skull. He whips around and steps to the side.

There's a loud crunch as the sedan hits a streetlight, which lets out a squeal of protest and starts to fall—directly where Peter had stood. Another bang of impact follows a split-second later as a car coming the other direction swerves into traffic. A motorcycle comes barreling out of the street, driver fighting the handlebars. The tingle shoots up the back of Peter's skull again.

He shoves the man standing next to him and they both hit the ground just as the motorcycle flies past.

Peter’s heart is hammering at the back of his throat when he pushes onto his elbows and looks around. Steam is pouring from under the hood of the smashed sedan and the people around them are screaming. Peter's staring at the carnage in shock when he hears Steve shouting, frantic, “Peter? _Peter!”_

“Dad?” he yells back, and scrambles to his knees, scuttling for the buildings, where his dad's voice is coming from. The downed streetlight is cutting him off from them. He ducks under it, eyes darting around, and that's when a hand grabs hold of the back of his shirt and pulls him back. He's yanked hard against a chest and then he's being hugged within an inch of his life, Steve's hand clutching at the back of his head.

“Thank God,” Steve breathes, then more urgently, “Peter, are you okay? Are you all right?”

“I'm fine, I'm okay, are you?”

Steve's eyes sweep over Peter, double-checking him for damage and he nods. “Yeah. I—I'm fine.” Then he jerks back, scrambling around. “Tony!”

His dad groans in response and Peter's stomach drops to his toes.

Tony is lying on the ground next to the downed streetlight, one hand clasped over his shoulder, where his jacket's torn.

“Tony, Tony, what's wrong, what hurts?” Steve demands, kneeling over him.

“Shoulder,” Tony says, and screws up his face in a grimace. He points at the streetlight over him. “Think it clipped me on the way down. Peter?”

“He's fine,” Steve reports.

“Dad?” Peter hears himself say, his voice climbing to a new register.

“Hey,” Tony says, voice light. His hand trembles as he lets go of his shoulder and reaches out for Peter's hand. “Pete, relax, I'm fine.”

“Don't do that!” Peter feels his chin waver. “Don't do that. Don't pretend you're okay when I can see you're not.”

“I need medical attention—ow, _gentle_ medical attention, okay, _ow,_ Steve—but I'm fine, Bambi.”

“I think it's dislocated,” Steve says, gingerly shifting the edges of the material around so he can peer inside. “There's a little blood, but not much.” He lets out a shaky breath and says, “Hopefully you haven't broken any bones.”

Tony sighs, face lined with pain. “God, I hope not.”

“The paramedics will be here soon,” a woman says, and she's right. Not even a minute later there are paramedics and ambulances and a fire truck somehow jammed into the street. Things get even more chaotic, and Steve drags Peter aside as the medics move in to take care of Tony, despite his insisting that he's fine.

Later, when they're at the hospital and Tony's being taken care of, Peter realizes what he should have a long time ago. “It doesn't matter if you're with Dad on missions,” he says, and his voice has a funny hollow quality to it. “It doesn't matter if it's you or if I'm there or anything, it's—it's still not enough. It's—nothing's going to ever be enough.”

“Peter...” Steve says, and reaches out.

Peter goes willingly, feeling his face screw up as a sob tears its way out of his throat, hot tears squeezing out from between his eyelids. He did all this, put his family through all this because he thought he could be better, because he thought he could protect them. And he's more powerful than ever and it doesn't even matter. Tony was hurt in a random _traffic accident_ and Peter was right there the whole time and he helped someone else and his dad got hurt.

Steve holds him like he's a little kid again, murmuring reassurances into his hair.

“I'm sorry,” Peter chokes, over and over. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I was so stupid.”

Steve's voice is hoarse when he says, “Peter, I— God, honey. Your dad and I, we can—we can retire. We don't have to—”

Peter jerks back, horrified. “NO!” he yells. “You _help_ people, you _can't.”_

Steve cups Peter's face and blinks back the tears in his own eyes. “There is nothing more important to us than you, Peter. _Nothing.”_

Seeing his dad like that, raw and open, is too much and Peter collapses into his arms again, hugging him tight. “Stopping won't make you safe. I love you because of what you do, Dad. I couldn't—I couldn't ask you to stop. I wouldn't want you to.”

Steve sniffles, kisses the top of Peter's head.

“I'm sorry I put you through all this for nothing.”

“Thank you,” Steve whispers, and hugs him a little bit tighter.

~

It turns out Steve was right.

His dad has a minor laceration and his shoulder was dislocated, but thankfully that's the extent of the damage. He gets a sling and some mild painkillers and they're allowed to go. “What a day,” Tony sighs. “Guess we're not having cake.”

“I don't care. I'm just glad you're okay,” Peter says.

“Actually,” Steve says, “I texted the gang. Clint picked it up. They're waiting for us upstairs.”

Tony grins. “Now that's what I call teamwork.”

Dinner is ready when they arrive, everyone chatting and bustling Tony into a seat, making sure he's got everything he needs. He looks exasperated at all the babying, but happy.

Uncle Thor's dinner is delicious, and slowly but surely the anxiety that's been humming in Peter's veins since the accident begins to fade. He tells them about the strange, almost prescient feeling he'd gotten on the back of his neck just in time to move out of the way during the accident. Uncle Bruce shakes his head, marveling. “It may be months before we know the full extent of the effects.”

Tony pokes at his cake, the happiness fading out of his expression. “Should we be worried?” he asks, and it's not as casual as Peter thinks he means it to be.

Betty and Bruce exchange a look. “No, I don't think so,” Betty says.

Tony doesn't look reassured.

“We could do screenings,” Peter blurts. “To make sure I'm okay.”

“It's not a bad idea,” Bruce says.

Tony smiles at Peter, reaching to ruffle his hair. Peter's happy to see the anxiety ease back. “I'm sure you're gonna be fine,” he says. “But thanks. Let's open your presents, huh?”

Peter takes the gift offered to him, hand dropping under its weight and—something white shoots out of his upturned wrist, blooming across Tony’s cheek in a white starburst.

He starts, reaching up to touch it.

“What the hell is that?” Steve says.

“I don't know!” Peter exclaims. “Sorry, Dad! Sorry!”

“Ugh, gross,” Tony says, “feels like spiderwebs. Steeeve, get it off!”

The two of them start picking at the fine white strands and Peter can't help it. He cracks up. “It's stuck in your goatee!”

Tony whines and Steve huffs, brow furrowing as he carefully removes the webbing, which clings to his fingers.

“It looks like some kind of spider silk,” Bruce says, reaching out to touch the chunks hanging from Steve's fingers. “Fascinating. Can you do it again, Peter?”

“Maybe,” Peter says. “I held out my hand and dropped it back—”

He repeats the motion and Bruce exclaims, “Whoa!” as more of the white substance shoots out of Peter's wrist. He ducks out of the way, just barely, and the substance hits the window behind him. It looks just like a spiderweb spread out across the glass like that.

“Oops.”

“So that's what those wounds were becoming,” Bruce mutters and moves around the table to examine Peter's wrists, carefully pressing his hand back to get the same reaction. Pretty soon the window's nearly covered.

Peter looks at his dads and they're both staring at the webbing in wonder. Tony's talking about testing the strength and range of it, gesticulating enthusiastically, while Steve hums thoughtfully and occasionally slips in a comment about tactical usage such as blinding assailants, maybe even pinning them, he adds, plucking at the strands stuck to his fingers.

Peter's heart starts to beat fast. “Blinding assailants, so...does that mean...?”

His dads' conversation lapses and they glance at one another. Tony nods and Steve looks back at Peter, takes a breath. “We've been talking it over and...if it's really what you want, Peter, we're willing to start training you.”

Peter's mounting excitement must be evident on his face because Tony leans forward and says, “That doesn't mean you're going to be going on missions or anything like that. You're still a teenager and your classes are important. Plus, I'm pretty sure the state would deem us unfit guardians if we allowed you out in the city to fight bad guys. We're talking strictly training.”

“And you'll have to do whatever you're told when you’re training, no questions asked, or it stops immediately,” Steve adds. He glances at Tony again. “That seems fair to us.”

Peter nods so hard he feels his neck protest. “I will. It is. _Thank you_.” He scrambles around the table, hooking his arms around both their necks and pulling them into a tight hug. They squeeze back and Tony murmurs, “We love you, buddy. Happy birthday.”

And maybe he went about it the wrong way, but Peter's officially going to be a superhero now and he can already feel the way his dads are treating him differently—more seriously, and it’s amazing.

Look out, New York, here comes the Spider-Man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate more than anything you guys sticking with me so long and seeing this story through. Thank you so much for reading and especially for commenting. Your comments were invaluable in keeping me motivated when I was struggling and mean the world to me.


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